Chromed- Upgrade

by Richard Parry

  “I think you’re wasting your time because none of them know anything.”

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “It seems likely. Haraway didn’t turn up for work. If one of them was in on it, they’d have made a pretext to leave today before your meeting.”

  “Could be a double-blind.”

  “I’ve read their email.”

  “That’s more like it.” Mason pulled out another cigarette. “Must be tedious to read.”

  “You always smoke more when you’re stressed.” Carter paused. “Yeah, it’s tedious. R&D, or some kid’s birthday party, or a barbecue at the weekend.”

  “You understand the R&D stuff?”

  “Mostly,” said Carter. “It’s not my area.”

  “Which one?”

  “All of it. It’s not like I spend my weekends reading up on nuclear energy.”

  “What do you spend your weekends doing?” Mason rolled his shoulders. “Almost time for round two.”

  “I’m not going out bowling, Mason, so stop asking.”

  “Jesus, Carter, who said anything about bowling?” He grinned. “It’s like you’re obsessed.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Carter sounded like she wanted to slug him. “What’s the plan?”

  “I’m going in there with a bunch of coffees. I’ll talk to them about how this has all been a terrible mistake.”

  “You’re going to do what?”

  “And then you’re going to watch them. After they leave.”

  “I’m sorry?” said Carter. “I thought you said I was going to watch them. All three of them.”

  “That’s right.” Mason’s grin grew broader. “Unless you had something else to do this weekend.”

  The link went dead. That’s coming along nicely. Mason started to whistle as he headed off to the cafeteria. He’d never been to the one on this floor. The fat black man looked like a mochaccino kind of guy. The gaunt asshole probably had it black. And the woman?

  Chai tea. Maybe with soy.

  Haraway’s office wasn’t what he’d expected. Mason had pictured a lab with white walls, half-finished experiments on tables, and maybe some components scattered about, wires hanging loose. What he got after cutting the yellow tape crisscrossing the door was … different.

  The walls were dark, inlaid with wood veneer. Rainforest foliage flourished in planters around the room, big green leaves reaching for a sky they’d never see. When he walked in, the room warmed for him, light spilling from the ceiling like the sun. Underfoot was a carpet made with long twists of fibrous material. It reminded him of noodles.

  Or grass. That was probably what Haraway was going for. The whole rainforest thing.

  The middle of the room featured a small black stone table and a single lounge chair. Inset into the wall was a dispenser, standard fare for Apsel executives. He walked to it, punching in an order for Scotch. The machine spat out a chunky tumbler, a single hunk of ice landing a second later with a clatter. The dispenser measured an exact two fingers of amber liquid.

  He took a sip, giving the office a tour. He started with the desk. It was glass and sat in the back corner of the room. His optics tagged the terminal on it, a small desk lamp, and the back of a photo frame. Sentimental, Haraway?

  “What kind of woman are you?” Mason swirled liquor, letting its aroma join the rainforest scents. It was good Scotch.

  “What?”

  “Not you, Carter. I’m talking to myself.”

  “Do you need me to make a booking with Psych?”

  Mason continued to walk the room, his feet silent on the carpet. “I don’t get it.”

  “Delusions and confusion are common first markers for mental instability.” Carter paused. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call Psych?”

  “What? No.” Mason stopped in front of the small black table in the middle of the room. He leaned down to get a closer look, running his hand across it. It felt rough, almost unfinished. “Check out this table.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s not smooth. The surface is trash.” His optics clicked in to zoom.

  “It’s obsidian. Didn’t you go to school?”

  “I went to school. I was more into sports and watching cheerleaders. How can you tell it’s obsidian?”

  “Conchoidal fracture.”

  “Are you speaking English right now?”

  Carter sighed. “You’re going to be the one that breaks me, Mason.”

  “You weren’t a cheerleader, were you?”

  Carter cleared her throat. “We’re not going bowling.”

  “Who said anything about bowling? Look, just drop the bowling thing.” Mason tapped the surface of the table. “This thing is junk. The surface is uneven. You couldn’t even put coffee on here without a high risk of a spill.” He put his Scotch on it, the glass tipping slightly, the liquid off-level. “See?”

  “Do you know what an atom is?”

  It was Mason’s turn to sigh. “Of course.”

  “I’m just checking. It’s hard to know the edges of your education.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Fine, fine. When molten rock cools—”

  “Molten rock?” Mason retrieved his glass for another sip. It really was good Scotch. “I thought you were talking about atoms.”

  “When molten rock cools fast enough, the atoms inside it can’t get themselves into a crystalline structure.” Carter sighed again, like she was daring heights of theatrics. “When that happens, and you break the rock, you get a conchoidal fracture.”

  “You can see the atoms of this thing through my optics?”

  “I can see it’s black, looks like glass, and has conchoidal fracture lines. It’s obsidian. She imported a giant hunk of volcanic glass for a coffee table.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Maybe we can get her to Psych and find out. The point is, it’s not a broken table. She got a table with rough edges on purpose.”

  Mason sat in the recliner beside the table, leaning back. He got a view of the ceiling, tips of the rainforest plants stretching fingers to the roof. “It’s kind of peaceful.”

  “There’s a sound system. Do you want me to turn it on?”

  “That depends. What’s she listen to?”

  “One sec. Okay, here it is. It’s rain.”

  “She could go outside and listen to the rain. It rains all the time in this city.” Mason sat up. “Are you sure she hasn’t been seen by Psych already?”

  The gentle sound of rain’s soft touch on leaves came from the room’s speakers. A bird chirped in the distance. “How’s that?” said Carter.

  Mason stood. “It’s not my thing.”

  “Want me to kill the audio?”

  Mason walked toward the desk. Last stop, Haraway. What were you working on? “No. Leave it.” Damn, but it is peaceful. He stepped around the desk, tugging the lamp’s chain. A small pool of light spilled over the glass surface. There was an old-style notebook, real paper leaves and all. A pen sat beside it. Mason flipped the notebook open, looking at pages of equations, hand drawings, and meticulous notes. Mason left his hand on the notebook, the paper texture under his fingers comforting. He lifted his eyes to the photo.

  A younger woman looked out at him, eyes sparkling. She was laughing at something just off frame. If Mason squinted just right, he could see Haraway in that photo, a little younger, and an entire lifetime away. Except this girl had green hair, and heavy black eyeliner.

  Green hair wouldn’t suit Haraway’s corporate image.

  “It’s her sister.” Carter cut across his thoughts. “She left the syndicate a few years ago.”

  Mason picked up the photo frame, flipping the latch at the back. The photo slipped into his hand. The writing on the back was full of loops and curls. A younger woman’s hand, someone just finished with being a girl.

  “Jenni — I’m free! See you soon.” It was signed Marlene.

  Mason tapped the photo against the
desk. “What do you mean, ‘left?’ No one leaves the syndicate.”

  “She did.”

  “That’s not helpful.”

  “Sorry, Mason.” Carter cleared her throat. “One day she was here. Enrolled in some clever kids’ program. Next day, she was gone.”

  “Missing?”

  “As near as.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. The file is brief. She just left,” said Carter. “Like I said.”

  Mason sighed. “She didn’t leave.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “No.” Mason turned on the terminal. “She ran away. Marlene Haraway, a promising young mind, ran away from Apsel. Now why do you suppose she did that?”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because she sent this photo.” Mason looked at the login prompt on the screen. “I hope you’re better with computers than you are with people.”

  “Much better,” said Carter. “Just pretend you’re Jennifer Haraway. The computer thinks you are.”

  “Do I have to wear exec clothes?”

  “I think all you have to do is be a little less of an asshole.”

  Mason winced as the screen in front of him flickered twice, the computer chiming. “Welcome back, Jenni,” said the terminal, a cultured male voice coming from it.

  “Who the hell uses a display these days?” said Mason.

  “I don’t understand, Jenni,” said the machine.

  “Pull up the last item worked on.”

  “I’m sorry, Jenni. As per your request, your files were deleted after the download.”

  “The download?” said Mason, leaning forward. “What download?

  “You initiated a work plan download.”

  “What was on it?”

  “You deleted those files.”

  Mason punched the terminal’s off button. “Well, that was helpful.”

  “They wouldn’t need you if it was easy. Security’s already been in here.”

  “I know. I cut the tape on the way in.” Mason swiveled in Haraway’s office chair. His eyes moved back to the notebook. “Can you give me a scan?”

  “Sure.”

  Mason picked up the book, opening it. He flicked the pages through in a smooth motion of ruffled paper. “Get it?”

  “Got it,” said Carter. “Okay, done. Digital copy of her notes is in your files.” As Carter spoke, an icon danced into life in his optics, then slid off the side into the archive.

  “Thanks, Carter.” Mason turned the book over in his hands, then pulled open a few pages at random. The tech notes might as well have been hieroglyphs. He flipped to the end. A single word was scribbled on the last page. Eckers. He tucked Marlene’s photo into the notebook. “I think I’ll hold onto this.”

  “What for?”

  Mason shrugged at the empty room. “I don’t know, yet.”

  “At least you’re not smoking.”

  Smiling, Mason walked to the door. “I need you to find some stuff for me, Carter.”

  “Sure.”

  “I want you to find for me anyone who was involved with Marlene.”

  “Sorry, I thought you said, ‘Marlene,’” said Carter.

  “That’s right.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “You can.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know that either.” Mason stepped through the door, then uplinked the command to seal Haraway’s office. He watched the ceiling lights die, the room dipping into darkness, as the door slid shut in front of him. The plants might never see their fake sun again. “It’s a hunch.”

  “A hunch?” Carter paused. “You want me to do a bunch of work on a hunch?”

  Mason put his hand against Haraway’s door. “Okay. It’s more than a hunch. Haraway’s sister… Wosshername.”

  “Marlene.”

  “Marlene, right. What would you do if your sister left the syndicate?”

  “I don’t know.” There was doubt in Carter’s voice. “I’ve never had a sister.”

  “I don’t have a sister, but I figure if I did, I’d want to know where she is. I don’t know if I’d leave all this,” Mason gestured at the hallway, “but I’d want to know she was okay.”

  And maybe, just maybe, I’d want to walk away from it all. If I had a sister, and she yelled for help in the dark, cold world? Maybe that’d be enough.

  Mason walked away from Haraway’s office, tapping the notebook against his leg. “What does the word, ‘Eckers,’ mean to you?”

  “Who knows. Password?”

  “It’s a pretty weak password.”

  “The weak ones are the best. When I was in training I used, ‘password,’ for seven weeks before anyone guessed it.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit, Mason.” He could feel Carter’s smile coming through the link. “Sometimes simple is best.”

  “Okay, let’s say it’s a password.” Mason walked past a researcher, white lab coat and harried expression moving past too quick for a nod. “What’s it mean?”

  “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “You base passwords on stuff, right? Like your mother’s maiden name, or a simple word. ‘Eckers’ is a pretty weird thing. It’s a set of letters.”

  “Like a name,” said Carter. “It could be a name.”

  “That feels right,” said Mason. He paused in the corridor, getting his bearings. “Can you do a search?”

  “Already running,” she said. “There’s a bunch of Eckers kicking around. Which one do you want?”

  Mason held the notebook up in front of his eyes, then flipped to Marlene’s photo. He looked at the girls’ face, the smile, and then turned it over. I’m free. That’s what she’d written. “I want one that’s got a criminal record.”

  “Narrows it down a bit,” said Carter. “You’ve got ten left. Why a record?”

  “Anyone who’s tied to a syndicate won’t have a record. Not for this.”

  “Not for what?”

  “Escape. She ran away from us. And her sister is trying to find her.”

  Chapter Nine

  The building was big and old, windows dark, some broken. A set of double doors at the front reminded Mason of a barn entrance, big enough to herd cattle through. A badly painted sign banged in the rain, weathered letters proclaiming The Hole.

  “Now this shit is classy.” Mason got off the big Suzuki, the drive powering down with a soft whine. “I thought the last part of town was trash, but this is taking it down a few more steps.”

  “It’s a popular location. Before they lost the Space Needle, anyway,” said Carter. “According to satellite surveillance, there was a significant gathering earlier this evening.”

  “Significant? Define significant. Ten guys? A hundred?”

  “More like a few hundred. It’s hard to be sure.”

  “Okay, that’s significant.” Mason’s helmet snickered back into his collar, the rain falling on his skin. “Wait. It’s hard to be sure?”

  “Some members of the crowd didn’t have a tag.”

  “Illegals, huh?”

  “It’s not illegal.” Carter gave a growl of frustration. “It’s strongly discouraged.”

  Mason snorted. “Yeah, sure. You and I went to different schools, Carter.”

  “You should get out of the rain, Mason.”

  “Yeah.” Mason rubbed his cheek, feeling the rain already starting to burn his skin. “Okay. I’ll go see who’s home.”

  As he walked away from the bike, the machine’s lights dimmed. Mason could hear the plink of cooling metal under the constant hush of the rain. His feet scuffed against a few stray pebbles, the street and sidewalk in disrepair. A Budweiser bottle lay in the gutter, the rain slowly burning the label from it. He pushed open the door. It swung open on surprisingly well-maintained hinges.

  He’d expected a creak at least. It’d have gone well with the inside of the place, all blacks and reds. An actual stage stood against the back wall, lights and
speakers cold and lifeless.

  At least it had a full length, not-fuck-around bar. The rest of the room was just a big empty space.

  Except for her.

  A woman leaned against the bar like she owned it, a bottle of something amber in front of her like it was waiting for her to sin again.

  She sat in a small pool of light, the dim room around her like a lake of gloom. One side of her head was undercut, long black hair cascading on the other. Black lipstick. Natural looks, not a hint of a clinic about her. She glanced at Mason as he stepped inside, then away as if everything about him was boring. “We’re closed.”

  Mason smiled. “Bars never close.”

  “This one does. Fuck off.” She took a pull from the bottle, swallowing big.

  Mason shut the door, walking toward her. He nodded at the bottle. “May I?”

  Her eyes moved to him again, giving him a proper once-over before looking back to the mirror behind the bar. “Sure.”

  He reached over the bar and snagged a glass, splashing liquor into it. He took a sip, coughing. “Fresh, isn’t it?”

  A small smile tugged at her mouth. She was pretty, if you wanted to dial up the grunge. Natural from the boots up. “That’s one word for it. House specialty.”

  “I’d hate to taste what they do bad.” Mason pulled out a pack of Treasurers, offering her one. She looked at the pack for a second, then took one with elegant fingers, painted black nails a contrast to the cigarette’s silver filters.

  He glimpsed calluses. Guitarist’s hands, unless he missed his guess. The silver of the cigarette glinted next to her black lipstick as she leaned toward the offered light.

  She gave a small sound of pleasure. “That’s a good cigarette.”

  Mason lit one for himself. “Yeah.” He breathed the smoke in, then sent the exhale cresting toward the ceiling. “What do you play?” Mason watched the smoke walk on lazy legs upward. “You look like a guitarist.”

  “Nothing you’d like.” She watched him with more interest now. “Nothing straight and even.”

  “I don’t think life’s supposed to be straight and even,” said Mason. “I think it’s supposed to be crumpled.”