Chromed- Upgrade

by Richard Parry

“Sure,” she said, but something had relaxed in her shoulders.

  Still, tough crowd. “How about them Seahawks, yeah?”

  She snorted. “Don’t waste your time.” She held the cigarette out from her, the glowing tip pointed up. “Are these … silver? Did you just light me up a silver filter?”

  Mason took another drag, the ember tip of the Treasurer flaring. “What do you mean, don’t waste my time?”

  She thought for a few moments, masking it with a pull from her cigarette. “Well, it’s one of two things.”

  Mason nodded. “Sure. What two things?”

  “More like one thing, with a bonus round.”

  He smiled despite himself. “Bonus round?”

  “Sure. You came here, looking for someone.”

  Mason nodded. “That’s a fair guess. It’s four-thirty in the morning. Although I might have come in just to get out of the rain.”

  “I heard you drive up.” She tapped ash directly onto the bar. “So you came to see someone.”

  “Okay.” Mason sipped his drink. “I came to see someone. I figure you’re here so you won’t see someone.”

  “Very perceptive,” she said. “And yet, here you are.”

  He smiled again. “But I’m not the person you don’t want to see.”

  “It’s not an exclusive club,” she said. “I could not want to see you and someone else.” But she smiled too.

  “Sounds like you’ve got a list.”

  “I’ve got a list,” she agreed. “Anyway. He’s not here.”

  “The guy you don’t want to see?”

  “No. The guy you want to see.” She frowned. “This is more confusing after a few drinks than I thought it’d be.”

  “How do you know it’s not you?” Mason watched her.

  She glanced at him again, then turned to the mirror. “It’s not me. I’m the bonus round. And you’re so not my type.”

  “I should be offended.” Mason tapped his own Treasurer against the bar. “But I’m not. Name’s Mason.”

  Those eyes watched him, the black lipstick pulling into an answering grin. “Good to meet you, Mason. He’s not here.”

  “You said that before. Who’s not here?”

  “Bernie.”

  “Ah.” Mason refilled his glass, then offered her the bottle.

  She nodded, snagging it with her free hand, taking another long pull. “‘Ah,’ for sure.”

  “How do you know I’m here for Bernie?”

  “Because he’s an asshole.”

  “Fair enough.” Mason thought that one through. “You work for him though, right?”

  “Everyone’s boss is an asshole.”

  “Mine’s not.”

  “Yeah he is.” She glanced at him. “Or you’re the luckiest man in the world.”

  “Mason.” Carter sounded bored. “She’s an illegal, Mason.”

  “You’re the world’s giant cock-blocking overlord, aren’t you?” Mason kept his comments to the link, nothing showing in the real.

  “Just thought you should know. I get three heat signatures in the building, and only two of you are linked. She’s not the other one.”

  “Why don’t you take the rest of the night off?” Mason swirled the liquor in his glass before speaking in the real. “Jesus.”

  “What?” She looked at him, licking liquor from black lipstick. “You don’t look the religious type.”

  “It’s … never mind.” Mason stood. “Hey. You didn’t tell me your—”

  A door at the back of the room banged open, a man striding in. He was tall and thin, black hair streaming behind him. He stopped dead when he saw Mason. Mason’s optics adjusted for the gloom, picking out the widening of the man’s eyes. Surprised, are you?

  “Who the hell are you?” The man started forward again, his long legs taking him to the bar. “We’re closed, asshole.”

  Mason put his hand out. “Mason Floyd.” He tried on a smile to match it. “I’m an acquisitions specialist.”

  The man ignored Mason’s hand. “You can acquire yourself a way out of here. I said we’re closed.”

  Mason’s HUD was already working through a biometrics match, but neither of these two came up on the search. Neither of them was Bernie Eckers either. He put his hand back at his side. “Sure. Say, have you seen—”

  “We haven’t seen anyone. Fuck off, company man. Your kind aren’t welcome around here.” The newcomer grabbed the woman’s arm. “Come on, babe. Let’s go.”

  She looked at the hand on her arm, then at her cigarette, before looking at Mason. “It was good to meet you, Mason.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded at her. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “No. You didn’t.” She grinned over her shoulder as the other man led her toward the back door.

  “Hey.” Mason wanted to follow her. “How do I get a hold of you? About your boss. If I need to talk to you again. You got a number?”

  The man at her side threw Mason a look, all savage edges, but she smiled at him. “I’ve got a number.”

  “What is it?”

  “If you can guess it, it’s meant to be. I hope I see you around.” And with a flick of hair she slipped through the door at the back.

  That kind of hope goes both ways. “Well, Carter. He’s not home.”

  “I could have told you that.”

  “You lack a sense of adventure. That’s your problem.”

  “It might be. Your problem is going to be severe hallucinations in a few hours. Why don’t you come in for another round in the chair?”

  Mason’s teeth glinted in the gloom. “You’re such a romantic, Carter. I’ll be in soon.” He thought about the man who’d pulled the woman away. “I need a shower.”

  “You need more than a shower. She’s not for you.”

  Mason ignored her. “And then I’ll come back. Mr. Eckers and I need to have a conversation.”

  “Mr. Eckers. Hmm. I wonder.” But Carter fell quiet.

  Mason walked toward the street doors. “Carter?” The rain still fell in unabated judgment on the world outside.

  “Yes, Mason.”

  “I need a meeting.”

  “Oh, Christ. No.”

  “Really, Carter.” Mason swung a leg over the bike, the HUD sparkling into life. A soft whine escaped from under the seat. “I think I need to talk to Metatech and Reed.”

  “You want to get your ass kicked again?”

  Mason’s helmet lapped into place around his face. “I was outnumbered. I did not get my ass kicked.”

  “You got beaten worse than a red-headed stepchild.” Carter laughed. “No, it’s fine. I’ll set it up. I can never get enough of a good ass-kicking.”

  “Thanks,” said Mason. He smiled inside his helmet. “I might bring a bigger gun this time.”

  “Bring whatever you like. But I’d call Harry if I were you.”

  “Harry?” Mason frowned, his foot knocking the kickstand back. He gave the throttle a twist, the fusion drive purring and growling under him. “That’s a bit much for a meeting, don’t you think?”

  “It’s your life, Mason. I’m just making suggestions.”

  “Well, suggest a meeting. Metatech. Reed. Somewhere neutral.”

  “Of course. I’ll prep Sasha.”

  “Thanks, Carter.” Mason was still thinking about black lipstick as the big Suzuki roared off down the street, front wheel skipping up to reach for the sky.

  Chapter Ten

  Zacharies sat close to Laia, sharing his body heat. She was small, thin, the desert cold nipping at her. He looked at the Master, sitting warm by the fire that Laia had coaxed into life. She’d been exhausted afterward.

  The Master hadn’t shared his fire or his food. The night was hungry and cold. The desert waited in the darkness, patient. Zacharies sat with Laia at the edge of the depression in the ground. Zacharies held a piece of melted glass, the edges sharp and bright. He glanced at their master, then back to the glass.

  “It’ll never work,
” said Laia.

  “What? Hush now. Sleep.” Zacharies smoothed her hair, his sister’s head against his shoulder.

  “We both need sleep,” she said. “You carried more than I did today.”

  He reached up to scratch under his collar. The metal left a rash, chafing his skin. He was almost used to the mark of being a slave. Almost. “I carried trash today.”

  She started up, looking into his face. “Not so loud! He’ll hear you.”

  “So?”

  Her finger pressed against his lips. “You know as well as I.”

  Zacharies tensed, then slumped. “I know. I wish—”

  “I wish it too.” Laia leaned back against him. She was shaking. They both wanted freedom. Or the Master dead. Both were the same thing. “It’s so cold.”

  He hugged her closer. “The angel will come.”

  “I don’t believe in angels.” Laia turned toward the Master. “Not anymore.”

  “You must believe.” Zacharies rubbed her shoulders for meager additional heat. “It’s—”

  “It’s all we have.” She’d been finishing his sentences for as long as he’d been finishing hers. “It’s not enough.”

  “For what?”

  “To dream of hope.”

  “It’s not a dream.” Zacharies held up the melted glass. “Where do angels come from?”

  Laia pointed toward the stars, impassive and mighty above them. “From Heaven. From our dreams. It’s the same.” Zacharies nodded, resting his chin against her head. “Our dreams are worthless.” There was something sick and tired in her voice. “They are the dreams of the lost. The fallen.”

  “Oh, sister,” said Zacharies. “We aren’t fallen. See, look here.” He held the glass out to her.

  She took it. “What am I looking at?”

  “See the ground?”

  “I see it.” Her voice was quiet, small.

  “See the stars?”

  Her head tipped up. “I see them.”

  Zacharies fell silent for a moment. “Remember two cycles past when a rock fell from the sky?”

  “Yes,” she said. Another shiver ran through her. “When it fell, it burned the earth.”

  “That’s right,” said Zacharies. “It came from the stars. But it wasn’t a person.”

  “What do you mean?” She turned the glass shard over in her hands.

  “An angel wouldn’t fall,” said Zacharies. “An angel would land. An angel would bring the weight of the heavens—”

  “—And step against the ground,” Laia leaned away to look at him. “You think an angel landed here?”

  “Yes, sister,” said Zacharies. He glanced at their master again, and his voice turned mocking. “I think the angel has come. Like the rock, he is mighty, and the heat of his anger burned the sand to glass.”

  Laia ignored the sting of his tone and listened to his words. She leaned against him again. “I hope so, brother.”

  He stroked her hair again, saying nothing at all. But his eyes burned, watching their master next to his fire, as they shivered in the cold of the desert night.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mason pushed through the crowd. He felt like a salmon, forging upstream. He’d left his bike behind, too many people on the streets to ride. It had retracted the cowl, sinking into park mode, leaving him on foot.

  He was used to crowds like this. Dense. Dirty. Hungry.

  Neon signs flashed everywhere he looked. Mason felt surrounded by their stained color. The hanzi may as well have been in Sanskrit for all he could make out. Steam rose from manhole covers in the street. He passed a man with a trolley piled high with electronics, a faded Walmart logo in chipped plastic on the front.

  A woman gyrated her hips, plastic raincoat open at the front. She was naked underneath. “Nǐ hěn yīngjùn. You want good time?”

  Mason didn’t look twice, walking into the anonymity of the crowd. There were always a lot of people out in Chinatown, but since the rain most people stayed inside. Plastic sheeting stretched across the sidewalk above him, a low-tech solve for weather that killed the poor. It was already mottled and rotting, the downpour beating against it. This place always reminds me of Hong Kong.

  Sooner or later, someone would have to do something about the rain for good. Not my problem.

  A man grabbed his arm. Mason ignored it, catching another man’s hand reaching for his wallet. Mason gave a twist of the man’s wrist, pulling out the Tenko-Senshin with his free hand. The muzzle pressed against the thief’s head, the weapon keening. “If your buddy touches his pistol, you’re a dead man.”

  The pedestrian traffic flowed around the three of them, willfully oblivious to what might be. Sometimes you got shot in Chinatown. Sometimes you bought chicken feet.

  The man behind Mason spoke. “Let him go. Or I’ll—”

  Mason spun, the lattice twisting inside him, pulling the thief around as a shield. The man hissed with pain as Mason’s grip tightened on his wrist. He could see the other man clearly now, acne spotting a face too young to carry anything more than a light fuzz. He wore a jacket patched and marked, chains lacing it, all under a head topped with Harajuku punk hair. “Or you’ll what?” The Tenko-Senshin’s whine was high-pitched, a red light flickering on the barrel.

  The man Mason held groaned. The kid with the acne watched the barrel’s light before looking down. “We don’t want any trouble.” He raised his hands. It was what Mason was waiting for. The lattice yanked, and he wrenched the man’s wrist he was holding, pushing him into the kid with acne. The barrel of the Tenko-Senshin swung back out to the street, the whine getting louder.

  A man who’d been crossing the street with murderous purpose stopped, looking at the barrel of the weapon. Mason’s optics scanned him. Same jacket. Same marks. The goatee on this one’s face was grown in. Not a kid.

  Mason showed teeth. It wasn’t a grin. “Back off.”

  “Hey, I was just—”

  “You can do it from over there.” The Tenko-Senshin vibrated, the whine above audible now, the lattice chattering along his arms as he held the weapon. “I got no issue peeling the skin from your face with this.”

  “Sure, sure.” The eyes above the goatee flicked to the other two. “We were going anyway.” He gestured at the other two. “Come.”

  The acne spotted kid looked at Mason, lips pulled into a sneer. “You’re a dead man!” He slapped one of the marks on his jacket, chains jingling. “We’re the South Sun Tigers, and no one—”

  “If you’re going to say no one kills one of the South Sun Tigers, friend, well. That’s just the kind of thing that cries out for a demonstration, isn’t it?” The crowd continued to flow around them. Despite his words, Mason spun the Tenko-Senshin back into his holster.

  The kid cradling his wrist nudged the other one. They both looked at the man on the street. “Come on.”

  “Yeah.” Acne Kid swallowed, his eyes bright. Goddamn stims, makes people feel invincible. “We’ll be back, company man.”

  “If you think it’ll help.” Mason shrugged, turning back to the crowd. “I’m running late now, aren’t I?”

  “I told you to bring Harry.” Carter sounded bored.

  “What, so he could fire a plasma cannon into the crowd, or immolate some street punks with rockets?”

  “You wouldn’t be running late if you’d brought Harry,” Carter said. “You’ll come around in the end.” Mason muttered under his breath as he pushed through the throng. “What was that?”

  “Nothing.” Mason looked around. “Where the hell is it?”

  “Over there. See the yellow and red neon sign?”

  “It’s in hanzi, Carter.”

  “Yeah. So, that’s the place.”

  “You sure?”

  “I read Chinese,” she said. “Clear as day. Says it’s the Golden Palace Restaurant.”

  “Of course you do,” said Mason. “You read Chinese, but you can’t dance.”

  She sighed. “I didn’t say I couldn’t dance
.”

  “Whatever.” Mason pushed through the greasy plastic strip door at the base of the stairs, heading up. The carpet was old, stained, worn thin in places. It might have been red once. The inlay might have been gold. It was just brown now.

  Something stuck to the bottom of his foot. Best not to ask what. Mason paused. “You sure this is the place?”

  “I’m sure. You said neutral.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to get salmonella.”

  “You can’t get salmonella,” said Carter. “Besides, this place gets great reviews. Don’t forget. You’re running late.”

  Mason kept moving up the stairs. At the top was a long corridor running the length of the building. He walked down the dim hall, optics adjusting for the low light. A wooden door with a golden handle was waiting at the end. He listened, a hand on the knob. The noise of the street sank to a murmur. The door was clean, no hint of grime like the floor. He pushed it open.

  The room was carpeted with a rich red pile, gold threads running through it. A large tiger’s head in gold bared fangs from the floor just inside the door. He walked over it, looking at the partitions made of slatted wood, or something wood-like, that separated booths from each other. Wide tables set out with white china and black chopsticks. White double doors with round glass windows set at eye height led to a kitchen, which was at the back near where he’d entered.

  Mason let his optics worry out the details, mapping the room, noting the blemishes. Around the walls weapons hung in racks, his HUD spitting up names and dropping their locations into the map it was building.

  The restaurant was empty except for a table near the middle. Two men sat at the table. The HUD marked them, uplink IDs showing on the map in the corner of his vision. City records were downloaded, the floor plan in the archives overlaid against Mason’s generated map.

  Matched pretty close, give or take. As an afterthought, the HUD dropped uplink IDs from the kitchen area out the back, migrant workers doing whatever people did in kitchens. It’s not something Mason cared enough about to find out.

  “Eighteen Arms.” Mason kept his comments to the link.

  “What?” said Carter.

  “All these swords. It’s the Eighteen Arms of Wushu.” He gave an over loud cough, so the two men would know he was there. As if they didn’t already. “It’s quite different on the inside. They’ve got some kind of medieval theme here.”