Chromed- Upgrade
Page 1
Chromed: Upgrade
A Cyberpunk Adventure Epic
Richard Parry
Contents
Off Grid
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
About the Author
Also by Richard Parry
Glossary
Acknowledgments
EXCERPT: CHROMED: ROGUE
Company People
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHROMED: UPGRADE copyright © 2018 Richard Parry.
Cover design copyright © 2018 Mondegreen.
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13 paperback: 978-0-9951148-6-9
ISBN-13 ebook: 978-0-9951148-3-8
Chromed: Upgrade and its sequel Chromed: Rogue are a loving remaster of the original Upgrade.
No parts of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without permission. Piracy, much as it sounds like a cool thing done at sea with a lot of, “Me hearties!” commentary, is a dick move. It gives nothing back to the people who made this book, so don’t do it. Support original works: purchase only authorized editions.
While we’re here, what you’re holding is a work of fiction created by a professional liar. It is not done in an edgy documentary style with recovered footage. Pretty much everything in here was made up by the author so you could enjoy a story about the world being saved through action scenes and witty dialog. No people were used as templates, serial numbers filed off for anonymity. Any resemblance to humans you know (alive) or have known (dead) is coincidental.
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Find out more about Richard Parry at mondegreen.co
Published by Mondegreen, New Zealand.
Forever and always — for my Rae.
Off Grid
Never go off the grid. That was the rule. It kept Mason alive. If you had to, make sure you had a weapon and backup. Apsel’s reach stopped where link coverage ebbed away to a gritty residue.
Mason had a weapon, but backup was a long ride away. You’re fifty percent there. Stop complaining. Get inside.
Seconds was the kind of bar nobody would go twice. An old chipped door, the auto sensor broken, the sliders sticky with beer or blood. Mason shouldered it aside. The interior felt warm. Humidity stuck like a bad odor to the air. In its better days, it would have hosted over a hundred, the pump and beat of music making their own statement.
Today, fewer than a dozen people were nursing drinks, telling themselves the usual lies. He eyed a woman by the bar, working what magic she had left on a john, her use-by date well passed. The john looked no better, a long, stringy guy with fewer teeth than he’d been born with.
Neither were worth credits or paperwork.
He wasn’t here for hookers or their clients. Mason was here for the promise of a lead. Most people would call it a rumor, but he’d spent enough time off-grid to know where truth lay among the grime.
Mason’s optics scanned the bar, picking out the mods. Seconds wasn’t the kind of place you went into blind. His first pass gave him nothing to cry about. Bionics done on the cheap, a knife where a laser would be best, out of fashion chrome making the wrong kind of statement. Nothing here was mil-spec.
Green neon flickered behind the bar, as tired and listless as the patrons. The bartender watched him, one chromed arm working a dirty rag over a dirtier surface. His eyes were underlined with a smatter of hanzi, the logograms giving off a soft phosphor blue bioluminescence. A couple of teenage ganguro girls were making out in a dark corner, the pastel of their eyeliner garish with the green from the bar. Mason’s audio brought him the whisper of their bright clothes as they rubbed against each other.
Carter said this was the place. Someone had come in here, dropped credits into the old terminal on the back wall, and made a play to buy company assets. Mason brushed rain from his jacket, then made his way to the bar. His tailored clothes said cash and syndicate. No one got in his way.
Not yet.
Mason’s overlay highlighted the bartender. No ID. No link. His optics showed a ghost who worked down here because up there was impossible. An illegal, like all the rest.
“Hey.” Mason put a grainy photograph on the bar. A side shot of a man, orange mirror sunglasses on, greasy hair over a face gone soft and ugly. Carter had uplifted it from the terminal. “Know this guy? He’s a buyer.”
The bartender didn’t look at the photo, his gaze touching the bottles stacked up in front of the flickering neon. The dirty rag paused. “I never heard of that mix. Been making drinks a long time now.”
Mason tapped his finger on the photo. “It’s a popular drink. Exactly the thing you’d get in this part of town.”
The bartender shrugged. “Drink like that, might be expensive.” The rag resumed motion, his chromed arm picking up the green light and pushing it around the bar top after the rag.
Mason saw the hanzi under the bartender’s left eye flicker, the glow stuttering. He pressed greasy notes down on the bar next to the photo. “I understand. Maintenance. Got to keep the kitchen in working order.”
“Exactly.” The rag stopped moving again. Mason caught a reflection in the chromed arm as a man walked in from the street. A sharp gust of night air followed him in, the faintest hint of sewage mixing with the acrid scent of rain. The bartender nodded to the newcomer. “It’s killer out there.” The photo and the money vanished, whisked away by the bartender as if they’d never been. He moved further down the bar, filling a cocktail shaker with dirty ice.
The newcomer sat next to Mason, a hint of Davidoff cologne washing off him. “Mind if I sit here?”
“It’s a free country.” Mason didn’t turn, taking in the expensive suit cuffs out of the corner of his eye. Tailored sleeves went with the cuffs. Might be an exec out for some fun at the people’s expense.
Might be syndicate trouble.
“That’s the biggest lie I’ve heard this week.” The man shook water from his coat, throwing the heavy jacket over a vacant barstool. “Hasn’t been free since they invented the credit card.”
“You don’t seem to be suffering.”
The man gave a quick laugh. “Business is good. What can I say?”
The bartender pushed a tumbler in front of Mason, the ice nestled in around a rich amber liquid. Algae in the drink sparked a bright pink, flecks of light flashing in amongst the amber and ice. “Your drink.”
Mason nodded his thanks, taking a sip. The liquor was rougher than he’d expected. He coughed. “Christ.” He saw a splash of white as he set it down. A scrap of paper was stuck to the bottom of the glass. A note for my eyes only. Money spoke a universal language.
The man next to him gestured to the bartender. “Whatever he’s having.”
“You really don’t
want to do that.” Mason grimaced. “Last time I order the house specialty, that’s for sure.”
“I can handle it.” The man counted notes on the bar. “These throwbacks need to get linked. I hate cash. It’s too dirty.”
“At least it’s quiet.” Mason took another swallow, then glanced at the stranger’s tailored cuffs. He looked back down into his drink, reading the address written on the note. “It’s probably as good a place to die as any.”
A heartbeat of silence followed as pressure built in the air. Mason felt his lattice react, its prediction routines making his hands grab the bar’s edge, heaving him over the top. A blast wave hit, tossing him against the wall. Mason’s perception of time slowed as overtime flowed over him.
The fibers in his jacket stiffened to take the impact. Glass and liquor rained on Mason from the shattered bottles above the bar. His optics flickered as they adjusted contrast, first to the flash of light then the dancing shadows. A single neon filament above Mason stuttered out the last of its life in refracted green before the bar went dark.
“I’m glad you appreciate your situation.” The man’s voice came from the other side of the bar. “No offense. Like I said, business is good.”
“None taken.” Mason planted his feet against the bar, bracing himself in the narrow space. He pulled his Tenko-Senshin sidearm from under his jacket, the whine of the weapon soft in the darkness. The nose of the weapon tracked the man’s footsteps as if it had a mind of its own. “Reed Interactive?”
“Good guess, but no. Metatech. Apsel?”
“Yeah.” Mason listened for movement. Careful. Metatech means mil-spec bionics. Keep him talking. “What are they like?”
“Metatech?” The man paused. “They sure as shit provide better backup than Apsel Federate.”
Mason’s smile glinted in the darkness. “What makes you think I need backup?”
The man laughed as he made for the door. No hurry in it, like he did this kind of thing on a daily. “Buddy? You look fucked to me.”
The door squealed a complaint as it opened, followed by a distinctive thud as Mason’s opponent tossed in a grenade. Get up, Mason. Move!
Mason rolled over the bar. He hit the kitchen door as the grenade exploded, throwing him into a stove so grimy it looked like a movie prop. He fell hard, then pushed himself upright. His optics flickered in the darkness — goddamn EMP — then switched to thermal, the intense bright square of the Tenko-Senshin’s energy pack outlined against the blue-black of the floor. Mason felt the cool calm of the hard link as his palm gripped it.
Only an amateur would rely on an EMP grenade against a syndicate asset. Top-shelf bionics barely noticed. An amateur, or someone who really does have backup. You got what you came for. Time to go.
“Mason?” The link flickered into life, Carter inside his head. Her deep, husky voice was tinged with a hint of concern.
“Now’s not a good time, Carter.” Mason went back to the kitchen door. A couple of tables burned, shedding sooty smoke. The heat from the flames scorched the center of his vision with white, so he switched back to visual light. “I’m busy.”
“That’s what I’m calling about.” She paused. “Don’t go out the front.”
“You checking up on me?” Mason looked through the door’s cracked window. The jumble of wreckage was unrecognizable. A mess of plastic and wood veneer nestled atop bodies. “I didn’t know you cared.”
“They used energy weapons. The signature is quite clear from sat telemetry.”
“Plasma?”
“Looks like.”
“Jesus. You get cancer from those things.” Mason pushed the snout of the Tenko-Senshin ahead of him.
“No.” Carter sounded annoyed. “You get burning from those things. The fire would kill you, and you would hurt the entire time you were dying. You were lucky. And careless.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re not going to be alive long enough to get cancer.”
“Like I said, now’s not a good time. You can list my failings later.”
“Why not just go out the back?”
“Two reasons. First, they’ll be expecting that.” Mason stepped through the kitchen door, his feet crunching on broken glass.
“The second reason?”
“The bartender gave me an address. He’s in here somewhere.” Mason paused. “What, no snappy comeback?”
“It’ll be expensive.” Carter sounded doubtful.
“Put it on my tab. Did I miss a budget cuts memo?”
“I’ll call a medivac.” The link went dead.
Mason stepped over a body flung from the center of the plasma strike. He looked at it as he passed. Not this one. The radius of damage was from Mason’s spot at the bar. His overlay plotted a line on Mason’s optics, showing the point of origin.
A booth, no different from the rest. No sign of the ganguro girls who’d been there, the booth black and empty. A fluorescent light stuttered to life, then went dark as sprinklers kicked in. Muddy water trickled from the ceiling for a moment before dying out. Loose drips of dark water stuck to the ceiling nozzles.
Mason found the bartender sprawled backward against a broken table. His chrome arm was gone, the stump smooth and pale. Cheap work. No anchoring. Or maybe the guy didn’t want to get that close to the metal. Mason scanned as he knelt. His HUD told the violent story of the bartender’s injuries. Burns. Lacerations and bruising. “Hey.”
The bartender coughed, the sound ragged and wet. “I tried to … doesn’t matter. Did you get the address?”
“I got it.” Mason nodded to the door. “It’ll keep a few minutes longer.”
The bartender grabbed Mason’s arm. “You don’t understand. They’re killing us.”
“Killing you?”
“The rain. Your buyer. That’s what’s for sale. Don’t you know?” He coughed again.
Mason stood. “Who was it?”
“What?”
“Who did you lose to the rain?”
The bartender looked at him, firelight playing across his features. The blue had faded from the hanzi, leaving gray marks like scars. “My brother.”
Mason nodded. “Try not to move. A medivac’s coming.”
“I can’t afford that.” The man’s eyes turned pleading. “Just leave me here. I’ll be okay.”
Mason looked at the Tenko-Senshin, the weapon’s hum a gentle touch in his hand. He moved toward the door. Before he stepped into the street, he glanced back. “It’s on the house.”
“Which house?” The bartender slumped back. “Who’m I gonna owe for this?”
Mason didn’t reply as he walked outside into the hissing rain, the door yawning behind him.
Chapter One
“I don’t know if I love you anymore.” Sadie tightened a garter strap, grabbing a shirt from the pile on the floor. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“Seriously?” Aldo looked at her from the couch. “You’re doing this to me now? We’re on in five.” They were in Sadie’s dressing room. A huge mirror surrounded by ancient incandescent bulbs reflected their sins.
“I know, baby.” She shrugged the shirt on. They hadn’t taken the time to unbutton earlier. “But that’s the way it’s going to be.” They were supposed to be readying for tonight’s performance. But then the urge struck, and … well, Aldo didn’t get urges as often as he used to.
“Shit.” The drummer rummaged around the pile on the floor, grabbing a pair of black leather pants. He felt in a pocket, pulling out a rumpled pack of cigarettes. He offered one, lighting it for her with an old-style Zippo, the skull motif etched on the side worn with time. “When will you know?”
“Know what?” Sadie worked on some black eyeliner. A rush job would have to do. She pursed her lips at her reflection in the mirror, then dragged on the cigarette.
“Jesus, Freeman! Whether you love me or not.”
“I don’t know.” She put the cigarette down in favor of a comb, teasing her hair.
“You
don’t know? How can you not know?”
Sadie sighed, her shoulders sagging a little. She didn’t turn away from the mirror. “It’s not that easy.”
“It’s easy for me.”
“No kidding. That was the fastest round we’ve ever had.”
Aldo looked down at his crotch, then back up at her reflection. “Hey. You said you wanted it quick.”
“I said I wanted to get it done before we had to go on. It’s not the same thing.” Sadie pointed to his pants with her free hand, still wrangling her hair with the other. “You should put those on.”
“Why? What if I don’t feel like playing tonight?” Aldo started putting a foot into the leather pants anyway.
“Are you five years old?” Sadie raised her eyebrow. “I guess I play without a drummer tonight.”
“What?” Aldo stumbled as his other foot got caught in his pant leg. A year ago, he’d filled them out; now, not so much. Too many of the wrong drugs. “You don’t have a band without a drummer.”
A knock sounded on the door. “You’re on.” It was the stage manager Bernie, still carrying too much stress for his own good. “Don’t do this muso shit tonight, Freeman! I got a hundred people out here who’ve paid—”
“Shut it, Bernie!” Sadie turned to face the door, a hairspray can raised in one hand. “I’ll be on when I’m fucking on! Don’t you have an ulcer to nurse?” She could imagine his wattled chin underneath bulging eyes in a sallow face, vein beating in his forehead. Admit it, Sadie. You like pissing him off.