Chromed- Upgrade

by Richard Parry

  “Nothing?”

  “Well, less than everything. I can’t find anything in the plasma that looks like it shouldn’t be there.” Sasha walked back toward her workstation. “I’d say it’s adapting.”

  “Adapting?” Mason shifted. “Why’s this plasma…?”

  “Plasmapheresis.”

  “Why’s it still working?”

  “I’m going to suck out your blood and spin it in a drum. Separate out the crap. If I had to guess, I’d say the hostile vector still needs to obey the laws of physics.” She tapped her keyboard a few times. The environment shield lowered from the ceiling, settling around the chair. It was as wide as the grating on the floor. “I guess that’s why they call them laws. Wait a sec, you might feel a pinch.” An articulated arm descended from the ceiling, needles at the end of it. Mason watched as red light scanned his arm, then the needles slipped home.

  He winced. “That’s more than a pinch. You enjoy your job too much.”

  Sasha glanced at him. “Only with some patients. We draw straws to see who gets to work on you.”

  “I should be flattered… Wait, what? You draw straws?” Mason watched as the machine drew his blood, the red marching into the machinery in the ceiling. A hum sounded above. “I’m not a piece of machinery. Flesh and blood.”

  “Mostly.” She gave him a long, slow look. “I’ll be sure to raise your concerns with the ethics committee.”

  A returning line of red made its way from the ceiling down the other needle. It entered his veins. “Christ that’s cold.”

  “It’ll warm up soon. You’re supposed to be a tough guy.”

  “Say, doc. These hallucinations.”

  Sasha turned away from her keyboard. “What about them?”

  Mason thought back to the burning arm on the ground of the basement. Hallucination my ass. “I don’t think—”

  “Mason.” Carter’s voice rattled around in his head. “I wouldn’t recommend it. Fastest way to get a trip to Psych.”

  “Sasha’s okay.”

  “It’s your brain.” Carter clicked off.

  Sasha raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think what?”

  “Never mind.” Mason shifted in the chair. “How long’s this going to take, anyway?”

  He made his way up to his apartment and found her waiting for him.

  He didn’t feel tired, and if he had, Mason would have shoved it aside. You can sleep when you’re dead, Floyd. A nasty taste lingered in his mouth, a relic of whatever cocktail Doc Coburn had given him before sending him off.

  His apartment was how he’d left it. No one here except her. The shades were drawn, wan light struggling to make an impression on the lush black leather furniture and the woman who sat there. Mason pushed the door closed quietly behind him. “Hey.”

  She looked up. “Hey yourself.”

  “Get you anything? A drink?”

  She stood, the sheer robe she wore falling open at the front. “I thought the whole idea of this was so you didn’t have to worry about buying me dinner first.” She smiled, raising her hand toward the TV, the art on the walls, and the view. “Quite a place you’ve got here.”

  “It’s just where I crash. I got another place, out of the city.” Mason walked to the liquor cabinet, pouring a splash of whisky into a glass. “I hope you don’t mind. Had quite the day. I need a drink.”

  He heard her indrawn breath. “Jesus. Is that a Macallan?”

  Mason glanced at her over his shoulder. “You know your whisky. Yeah. It’s a fifty-seven-year-old.”

  Her bare feet brought her a few steps closer. “I… Hell. Can I try some?”

  Mason pulled out a second glass. “Sure.” The liquor splashed and gurgled as he poured. “Here.” He didn’t know her name. Didn’t want to, either.

  She took it from him, fingertips brushing his. She breathed in deep as she raised the glass to her lips, then took a sip. “God. That’s really good.”

  Mason nodded, then reached into a drawer. He pulled out a pack of Treasurers, offering her one. “Smoke?”

  “Christ. You smoke Treasurers too?” She took one, her nails a shiny red next to the silver filters. He lit it for her and she took a deep pull. “You sure know how to show a lady a good time.”

  “You should see me at a restaurant.” Mason stepped to the stereo rack set into the wall, selecting a low beat. The antique Bang & Olufsen spread it out silky and smooth. Nothing made today sounded quite so pure. He put down his cigarette and whisky. “Do you dance?”

  “Sure, baby.” She put her own cigarette and whisky down, then moved over to him. She draped an arm over each of his shoulders. Her face was very close. “Whatever you want.”

  They rocked together in the center of the room. Mason touched her slowly, his hands running beneath her robe. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  She leaned against him. “Shoot.”

  “You seem like a nice girl—”

  She snorted. “Right.”

  “And I’m wondering.”

  “Wondering? Like, how a nice girl like me ends up here?”

  “Something like that.” Mason touched her back, and she shivered against him. He leaned closer, kissing the nape of her neck.

  She tipped her head back, making a low noise in her throat. “It’s better than the alternatives.” Her hand held to the back of his head as he nuzzled her. “Much, much better.”

  They danced for a few moments more as the light of dawn broke across the city, a sliver of heaven seen between the blankets of clouds. Time waits for no man. Mason took her hand and led her to the bedroom.

  Chapter Five

  Bernie fidgeted in his creaking seat, his fingers tapping a rhythm as the rain drummed against the car’s roof. That bitch Sadie made his ulcer worse, but damn she could sing. One of her tracks did laps inside his head. He liked the hard Seattle sound.

  Come to think of it, he liked her hard body.

  Bernie would get himself some of that. He always did. Bernie flipped open the old Buick’s glove box, rummaging around until his hands found a memory sliver. It was ancient tech but needs must. Being under the radar was more important than driving his uplinked Lexus with an on-demand music system.

  He slotted the sliver into the stereo, using a fat thumb to turn the volume up. Sadie’s throaty voice eased out of the speakers, filled the cabin of the car, and drowned out the sound of the rain. Bernie leaned his head back, staring at the once-white roof. The cracked vinyl had a stain in the driver’s side corner. He let his eyes wander along the pattern, thinking of the music, then thinking about what Sadie would look like naked.

  A knock came at the window. Bernie jerked upright, knocking his bottle of Southern Comfort to the floor. “Jesus Christ!” Bernie reached into the footwell, rescuing the bottle, then spun the volume to low. He wound the window down with the ancient mechanical handle. You’re in charge. Prove it. “You’re late.”

  “You said six thirty.” Haraway looked at him, eyes uncertain, her white Apsel coat showing a few spots where the umbrella she held didn’t quite do the job. Her blond hair didn’t have a strand out of place, framing a clinic-perfect face.

  “So?”

  “It’s six thirty-one.” She looked around, the deserted lot empty except for the rain.

  “Like I said. You’re late.” Bernie jerked a thumb to the passenger side. “Get in, doc.”

  “I’m not a doctor.” She walked around the car, shoes splashing through water. Haraway hauled the passenger door open, collapsing inside. Haraway puffed her umbrella a few times, shaking the water out. Right on the floor of my vintage car. “Nice music.”

  “Screw the music.” Bernie eyed her. She was fine, no mistake. All the corporates were. They could afford it. “Why’d we have to meet?”

  “I, uh.” Haraway swallowed. “You know the rain?”

  He snorted. “I know the rain. It’s been pissing down for weeks. Bar staff don’t turn up for work on time anymore.”

  She
nodded, eyes distant. “I think…” She swallowed again. “I think we did that.”

  Bernie coughed out the swig of Southern Comfort he’d just taken. “What?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “No shit.” He offered her the bottle. Get the bitches drunk, that was always a good start. “A little southern hospitality?”

  Haraway grabbed it from him and drank almost greedily. If he could get her to go down on… Business first, Eckers. You know the rules. You always fuck it up when you forget the rules. She came up for air, holding the bottle out. “You relocated my sister.”

  Bernie took the bottle back, letting his fingers brush against hers. She pulled back. His grin filled the small space of the car. They always come around in the end. When they realize how much they need you. “Remind me. Who’s your sister?”

  “Marlene Haraway. She told me about you.” Haraway paused. “All about you.”

  “Ah.” Bernie’s grin stayed fixed on his face. “I remember. Younger sister, right?”

  Haraway glanced at him, a look of revulsion on her perfect face. “That’s right.”

  “Yeah. Real shame how she got in trouble with the syndicates.” Bernie shifted in his seat, adjusting his crotch. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Nothing.” Haraway’s expression became guarded. “Everything. I know where the rain comes from.”

  “You said that.” He waved his hand. “Spill, kid.”

  “We’re trying to sell some tech.” She craned around, trying to see through the rainy, fogged windows. Like she’d be able to see anything more than a couple meters away.

  Always raining — it’s always goddamn raining. “That’s right.” Bernie frowned. “Look, if it’s about the test, that was—”

  “It’s not about the test.” Haraway shook her head. “Okay. It’s about the test. The test you did. Without me.”

  “The test site is where the rain comes from?”

  “No.” Haraway looked at her hands. “Maybe. It’s complicated.”

  “Uncomplicate it.”

  She turned to him. “If you’d just waited, like I said, we’d have—”

  “Couldn’t wait,” said Bernie. “Had a buyer.”

  Haraway blinked. “You’ve found a buyer?”

  “Had. Gone on the wind. Someone blew up my meeting point.”

  Haraway scrabbled at the door. “I’ve got to go.”

  Bernie put a hand on her shoulder. “Doc, look, it’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay, Mr. Eckers.” Haraway was tugging at the big old handle, the mechanism sticking. “There’s only one reason why someone would… What did you say? ‘Blow up your meeting point?’”

  “Yeah.”

  Haraway looked him over. Saw his calm. She licked those delicious lips before speaking again. “You’re not concerned.”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m still sucking oxygen.” Bernie leaned back. “You’re still sucking oxygen. If they knew, we wouldn’t be sucking oxygen.”

  Haraway tilted her head to the side before letting the handle go. “That makes sense.” She paused. “We need to be careful.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, Mr. Eckers. Really careful. This is big.” Haraway smudged a window clear, looking out into the rain. “It’ll change the world.”

  Bernie eyed her over the top of the bottle, then took a swig. “World might not need changing.”

  She turned back to him, her lips twisted. “Everything needs changing.”

  Bernie shrugged. He hadn’t taken her for an idealist because she’d wanted money from the deal. Come to think about it, he didn’t much care. He picked at his nose. “Sure. Needs changing. You still want to be rich?”

  “No.”

  “What?” Bernie felt his heart skip.

  Haraway smiled at him. She didn’t look happy. Haraway looked hungry. “I want to be disgustingly rich. I want to have so much money that nothing can get in my way.”

  “Jesus, Doc, you had me scared for a second.”

  “No mistakes this time, Mr. Eckers,” she said. “No blown-up meeting points. No reason for an Apsel satellite to perform an orbital strike. Nothing.”

  “No guarantees in this business, kid.” Bernie scratched at his belly. “You know that.”

  She looked thoughtful, biting her lower lip between perfect teeth. “I know that.”

  “Why don’t you come along this time?” Bernie leered. “Maybe after—”

  “Are you insane?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Bernie. “I sell shit. I make a percentage — a good percentage — on selling shit. I’m simple. Not crazy.” Just want to get mine. Everyone else is getting theirs.

  “I can’t be there. If it goes wrong—”

  “If it goes wrong, it’s not going to matter if you’re there or not,” said Bernie. “They find me, they’re going to find you.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Shit no.” Bernie frowned. “You know how this works. It’s just a set of facts. They’ll stick my head in a jar and suck out whatever’s inside. They’ll find you.”

  She gave a slow nod. “They will.”

  “So, why don’t you come along?” Bernie looked that fine body up and down again. “It’ll give a buyer a little more… faith.”

  “Faith?”

  “Don’t hate the player,” said Bernie. “Hate the game.”

  “You want me to give them faith?” She twisted to face him again, the Apsel coat pulling tight over her breasts. “The science is a little complicated—”

  “Science?” He wasn’t sure if he was keeping her talking for a good reason, or just to keep looking at her. She had a damn good clinic.

  Haraway sighed, her chest moving under the coat. “The rain’s not from here.”

  “What do you mean, not from here? Is it from Cleveland?”

  She shook her head. “It’s from much, much farther away. Trust me.”

  Bernie laughed, a small nasty sound. “Trust is in real short supply, kid. I tell you what would cut a deal, though.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “You. I tell you what. I’ll bring some guys. Buyers with money. You bring some product. And yourself. We’ll see if we can make something work.”

  “Something?”

  “What do you syndicate types call it? ‘Contract transfer.’”

  The car held them close, the only noise the rain on the roof. It seemed loud, urgent, as if it wanted to come in. “You want me to…”

  “Look, doc. If you sell something big? They’re going to have you executed.”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t care about that?”

  “I care. Believe me. I’m attached to,” she smiled, “‘sucking oxygen.’”

  Bitch is starting to thaw. Keep working it, Eckers. “You get a new contract, you get a new life. Protection.”

  She nodded slowly, coming to the same conclusion. “I’ll need a space to set up.”

  “Just what are you selling?”

  Haraway looked down at her hands. “I’ll need to show you. And for that, I need to be there.”

  “So Apsel don’t light us up from orbit?” Bernie tugged his shirt away from his paunch. “Or for insurance?”

  “Insurance, mostly. I … I think I can get it working right. So people don’t die. So we don’t die. Last time…” Haraway trailed off, looked at the rain again. “So much has already gone wrong.”

  “How big?”

  “What?”

  Bernie twisted to face her again. This deal could be big. Could be the biggest you’ve run, Eckers. Play out the line. Don’t break the hook. “How big a space do you need?”

  “Not very big.”

  “I’ve got a place. Off the grid.”

  “Do you have power?”

  “I thought you Apsel guys were all about power.”

  “The demonstrat
ion has a certain fingerprint. If you’d listened to me before the test—”

  “Bygones.” Bernie waved his hand.

  Haraway frowned. “It’s best if it’s near something Apsel already runs.”

  “Don’t sweat the details. You’ll get your Apsel reactor.” Bernie put a hand on her arm. “But — well, doc. Don’t jerk me around on this one.” He let his hand linger.

  She looked down at his hand, then pushed it away. “Don’t worry, Mr. Eckers. It’s a clean game of pool. And like I said, I’m not a doctor.”

  “Right, right.” He nodded at the passenger door next to her. “Then get out. Be at The Hole. You know it?”

  “No.”

  “Buy a map, then. Be at The Hole. Friday. Noon.”

  Worry crinkled her brow. “Can we do it sooner?”

  “Do I look like an instant courier? No, it can’t be done sooner. I need a new set of buyers after last time. And I need to get your precious reactor.”

  “I’m worried. They feel close.” She rubbed her arms. “Friday it is.” And with that, Haraway pushed the passenger door open, umbrella leading her way into the rain. Bernie watched her leave, his eyes on her ass.

  He fired up the old Buick as she shut the door. The wheels crunched on loose stones and broken asphalt as he nosed it out onto the street. He grinned, the dim light from the dash lighting up his face. Bernie’s hand touched the volume, Sadie’s voice growing loud in the cabin. The car picked up speed, his belly bouncing against the seat belt.

  They always came around in the end.

  Chapter Six

  The autolights shut off after dawn’s glance through the windows. Louvers opened slow and silent to reveal the cloudscape clutching the tower. Mason hadn’t slept yet. He stood looking out at the clouds beneath him, sipping whisky. Mason spared a glance toward the bedroom, catching a glimpse of black hair strewn across silk sheets.

  “You ready to get to work?”

  Mason coughed whisky. “Jesus, Carter. It’s seven in the morning. I haven’t been to sleep yet.”

  “It’s closer to seven-thirty. You could have grabbed a couple of hours. What have you been doing with your time?” She sounded testy. “I’ve arranged breakfast.”