Chromed- Upgrade

by Richard Parry

  “You don’t say,” said Carter. “That’s not mentioned in the reviews.”

  “Let’s do this.” Mason walked toward the two men. One of them he knew. Even if he’d forgotten the face he’d remember the immaculate white cuffs. The cufflinks were made to look like small gears. He smiled, surprised to feel it genuine. “Hey. Metatech, right?”

  The Metatech man stood, returning the smile and offering a hand. “That’s right, Apsel. No hard feelings?”

  Mason shook Metatech’s hand, then turned to the other man. He noted sunglasses over an expensive suit. “Reed?”

  “Right in one.” They shook, then all three sat down. Mason couldn’t help but notice that his back was to the door, Metatech and Reed with their backs to the window and the street outside.

  Reed leaned forward. “What’s this about?”

  Mason held up a hand. “Can I ask a question first?”

  The Reed man sat back, spreading his hands. “It’s your dime.”

  “Sunglasses? Inside?”

  Reed’s face quirked, almost a smile. “It’s a thing I’m testing. For the company.”

  Mason nodded. “Sure. Look, is there a waiter here? I want a drink.”

  On cue, a slim Asian man in white entered from the kitchen doors. Mason caught a smattering of hanzi in softly glowing green under the cuff of his white jacket. His optics marked the empty earring holes, like the restaurant didn’t want their staff to show metal to the customers. The man’s accent was thick. “Food? Drink?”

  Metatech waved a hand. “Sure. Píjiǔ?”

  The waiter looked at him. Reed snorted. “It’s just pí.”

  “You shouldn’t rely on the link for easy translation, especially if you’re using the wrong language,” said Mason. “Bīru o onegai shi. Asahi, if you’ve got it.”

  “Tsingtao?” said the waiter. At Mason’s nod he turned to the other two. “Anything else?”

  “Whatever he’s having,” said Metatech. Reed nodded. After the waiter walked away, Metatech turned back to Mason. “Bīru?”

  “He’s Japanese. Not Chinese.” Mason drummed his fingers on the table, then said, “Look, this meeting—”

  “We’re just having a couple beers,” said Metatech. “It’s not a meeting. There’s no way the syndicates would sanction a meeting.”

  Reed leaned forward. “Just a couple of beers. On our own initiative.”

  The waiter came back with a tray, three green bottles frosty in Chinatown’s mugginess. Glasses clinked against them. He started to put the beers in front of them. Mason waved the glass away, taking a pull right from the bottle. “Garasu de kuru.” Comes in a glass.

  “You speak Japanese?” said Carter. “What the hell use is that around here?”

  “Watashi wa nihongo wo sukoshi dake hanashimasu,” said Mason. “Look, I need to focus here.” But the link was already gone.

  “Problem, friend?” said Reed. He poured his beer into his glass.

  “No, no problem,” said Mason. “Just my handler checking in.”

  “I hear that,” said Metatech. He and Mason clinked bottles.

  “You guys know each other?” said Reed.

  “Sort of,” said Mason. “Professionally.”

  “Misunderstanding,” said Metatech.

  “A misunderstanding.” Mason nodded. “Metatech here was trying to sell Apsel tech. Or buy it, I haven’t worked it out yet.”

  “Buy it,” said Metatech. “Didn’t know it was Apsel.” The other man frowned, straightening his cuffs. “Probably wouldn’t have changed our course much if we had known, though. We might have brought a few more operatives.” He smiled at Mason over his beer.

  Reed nodded. “Misunderstandings. Wrong board memo at the wrong time, and we cop the shit, right? Happens all the time.” It was hard to read his face behind those glasses. Mason liked to see a man’s eyes when he was brokering a deal. “I had two of those last week.”

  “Ah,” said Mason, taking another pull from his beer. “So, here’s the problem.”

  “Problem?” said Metatech. “Something the Federate needs our help with?”

  “Not really,” said Mason. He put his beer down, turning the bottle so the label faced him. He started scratching it off with a fingernail. “More a … friendly piece of advice.”

  Reed laughed. “You’re trying to stop a sale.”

  Metatech started to laugh too but stopped when he saw the look on Mason’s face. “Holy shit. It’s something big.”

  A piece of the Tsingtao label came off, a bright red letter on a white background. Mason looked at it for a moment. “I had a meeting with the boss this morning.”

  “Right,” said Reed. “So what?”

  Metatech sat quietly for a moment. “The boss?”

  “Yeah,” said Mason. “Gairovald.”

  Reed spat out the swallow of beer he’d been taking, dabbing at his chin with a napkin. “I didn’t even know he was in the country.”

  “He’s not. Officially, I mean.” Mason shrugged. “Just passing through.”

  “And he met with you?” Reed took another swig from his glass. “What division you work in?”

  “Specialist Services,” said Mason. “Acquisitions. Mostly.”

  “You really must be good enough to not need backup,” said Metatech. “What’s he like?”

  “He’s the boss.” Mason considered the question. “Knows what he wants.”

  Metatech nodded like he knew. Maybe he does — could play golf with the head of Metatech on a Sunday. No way to know. “What did you lose?”

  “No clue,” said Mason. “We tracked the deal online, same as you. Unspecified syndicate tech. We’ve worked out it’s ours. Comes in a box about this high.” He held a hand up to the height of their table.

  Metatech leaned forward, his beer forgotten. “Recovery?”

  “No,” said Mason. “Remove and erase.”

  “Christ,” said Reed.

  “Why are you telling us?” said Metatech. “I mean, it’s got to be golden. We’ll all want a piece.”

  Mason nodded again. Another piece of the Tsingtao label peeled off. “It’s a fair warning. If you want in, you have to go all in.”

  “All in?” Reed looked at him over his glasses, Mason getting a view of his eyes for the first time. Worried. “What do you mean?”

  “Stock price might go up. Might go down too.” Mason turned the bottle in his hands. “Or war. We won’t stop until we … resolve the loss.”

  Metatech snorted. “There hasn’t been a war between the syndicates in—”

  “What do you want out of this?” Reed topped up his glass from the bottle. “And why us?”

  “Easy,” said Mason. “I’m actually hoping you’ll be smart enough to stay out of the way. Someone’s trying to sell our shit, and they’ll be trying to sell it to one of you.”

  “But why us?” Reed said. “Reed Interactive. Metatech. Apsel. What’s the link?”

  “Money, mostly.” Mason looked at the Reed man, then turned the beer bottle against the table, the knurls on the bottom making a harsh sound. “They’ll need a syndicate with the cash to pay for it. Look, we’re the same guy, just different places. We all got our reasons for working where we do.”

  “Right,” said Reed. Metatech nodded.

  “And I know that when the rain came—”

  “You think the secret to the rain is in this tech?” said Metatech.

  Mason nodded at Reed. “Hallucinogenic effects released in the atmosphere? Only one syndicate specializes in synthesizing entertainment right into your brain. It’s why I thought you might have been Reed, back at the bar.”

  “Figures,” said Metatech. “I was after Reed as well.”

  “You assholes,” said Reed. “It wasn’t us.”

  “No, no,” said Mason. “I’m pretty sure it was us now. Not our specialty, but it looks like it’s our tech.”

  “How do you know?” asked Reed.

  Mason remembered a broken building,
shattered stone, and a blackened piece of metal with the Apsel logo alongside ATOMIC ENERGY DIVISION. The hallucinations were stronger there, somehow. He tapped a fingernail against the bottle. “Can’t say. You know how it is.”

  Reed shrugged. “You don’t want to sell it? This could be easy all around. Why try in markets that aren’t your core business?”

  “That’s above my pay grade,” said Mason. He grinned. “You can keep trying the other way, though.” Reed’s hand tapped the table. Mason nodded at him. “Something to say?”

  “We tried to buy the rain.”

  “You what?”

  “Wasn’t on my watch. Didn’t know it was the rain. While you two were getting acquainted, we’d already tried to get a demo of the tech. Someone wanted to set up a deal. Said they had something that would blow our mind. We sent a team to … collect. Old building, outside of town.”

  Mason leaned back. “Building’s not there anymore.”

  Reed nodded. “I figured. The deal was sour.”

  “It wasn’t sour. Someone just didn’t use the right protection.” Mason took a last swig from the bottle. “You know who tried to sell it to you?”

  The other man shook his head. “Sorry, Apsel. And you know—”

  “You wouldn’t tell me even if you did.”

  “That’s it. You know how it is.”

  “So,” said Metatech. He splayed his hands in front of him, looking at his nails. “What’s the play?”

  “No play,” said Mason. “Nothing up my sleeve. I just want you to know. If someone tries to sell you a metal box with an Apsel logo on it? We’re coming after that box.”

  “Fair enough,” said Metatech. “What about—”

  The door at the back of the restaurant banged open, street thugs spilling in like angry garbage. The lattice spun Mason around in his chair, optics doing a quick zoom. He picked out patches, chains, the Harajuku style overdone. He caught a familiar face covered with acne. His HUD already mapped out the five punks. Mason looked at where they were standing, noting the tiger on the floor.

  “Ah, hell.” His shoulders slumped. These little cocksuckers are going to screw this negotiation up. “South Sun Tigers. No shit.”

  “Mason,” said Carter. “There’s an enforcer class hybrid approaching.”

  The whine of servos accompanied the enforcer as it crouched low to shoulder through the entrance. Big metal hands pulled on the door frame as it shuffled into the room, marking and crushing the wood where they gripped. It stood up, looming an easy meter above the tallest of the South Sun Tigers. The metal and ceramic of its armor glinted in red. Chains had been welded to the armor in places, giving an approximation of the South Sun Tigers patch pattern. It flexed its shoulders, then slammed one metal hand into the palm of the other. A step took it forward, a hiss of hydraulics escaping as it locked into a fighter’s crouch.

  Metatech looked at Mason. “Friends of yours?”

  Reed already had a gun drawn, an energy weapon pulled out from under his jacket. It was black and ugly, a short-nosed thing. “Christ, Apsel. We came in good faith.” The energy weapon swung to Mason, then to the South Sun Tigers. Then back to Mason.

  Mason’s hands were up. “These guys aren’t—”

  “Hey, asshole.” It was the kid with the acne, walking tall with a bunch of punks at his back. “I told you, company man, no one messes with the South Sun Tigers.”

  “That’s not what you said,” said Mason. The Reed man swung the weapon back toward the South Sun Tigers.

  “What?” said the kid.

  “That’s not what you … you know what, fuck this.” The Tenko-Senshin was in his hand as if by magic. Mason didn’t remember pulling it out. The lattice might have helped. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye as the Metatech man reached under his jacket, pulling out a weapon looking like a big staple gun.

  “Going hot,” said Carter. Her voice was flat. She’d put a box around one of the South Suns at the back, a thin man with a data jack in the side of his head. A cable, knotted and twisted, dropped down from the jack to a small portable rig. The man tapped furiously on the keyboard. “Prepare for interference.”

  Mason nodded. It’s time to dance. He kicked off a targeting solution, the helmet lapping out of his jacket and around his head. His overlay marked the Tigers.

  As an afterthought, he excluded the one with the rig, the overlay’s box around the man flashing and dying out. Carter would be pissed if he stole her kill.

  The Metatech man gave the staple gun a jerk, and the bulk of it fell into sections, linking together into a barrel. His other hand came out of his jacket, slapping a rectangle underneath.

  “Link up. Kick into overtime,” said Mason. The other two men nodded, their link requests already coming in. Their icons blinked on his overlay, then stabilized. Mason felt the familiar feeling of his lattice, warm under his skin. It felt like his heart slowed in his chest as his augments speed up his nervous system. The light in the room changed as his perception upshifted, the colors washing out. The South Sun Tigers seemed to pause, the one on the rig typing in slow motion.

  “This isn’t your play?” said Reed, his voice sounding stretched over the link.

  “It’s not his play,” said Metatech, a flash of neural static following the words. “I’ve got the big one.”

  Reed clicked an affirmative. “I hope that cannon of yours can do the job.”

  Metatech’s smiley came across the link, outlined in red. “It’s something a bit special. From the boys in the lab.”

  “This is what I’ve got,” said Mason, sharing his overlay with the other two. “Six targets. One of them’s an enforcer class hybrid — all yours, Metatech. My handler’s on the decker.”

  Reed marked the kid with the acne. “You look personally involved. I’ll take him.”

  “Solid copy,” said Mason. “Wait. You’re leaving me with three?”

  “Reed Interactive’s into entertainment. We’re not a bunch of ninjas.”

  “It’s ninja,” said Mason.

  “What?”

  “It’s just ninja. The plural. There’s no ‘s’ at the end.”

  There was a burst of static from Reed’s end. Then, “Ready?”

  “Ready,” said Metatech.

  “Ready,” said Mason. He felt the lattice reaching down through his arms, and he pulled the trigger on the Tenko-Senshin. The overtime played down his spine, and he thought he could almost see the individual flechettes leaving the weapon, silver flashes quickly surrounded by flames as they superheated the air, fire following them to their targets.

  His optics cut out, the world going dark. The lattice coughed out of overtime with a jerk, his heart thudding and kicking back in his chest. He almost tripped, the wrench back to the real making him stumble. “Carter?”

  Mason heard something thump hard to his left, feeling heat as the Metatech weapon fired. There were three snaps from his right as Reed’s weapon joined in. He could hear their movements, quicker than thought.

  “Carter!” Mason swung the Tenko-Senshin in front of him. “Carter, I’m blind.” The decker. Faster than Carter? Might just be a head start.

  Snow flicked across his vision, then cut back to black. Think, Mason. He was pretty sure there was a table behind him. He dropped to a crouch, duck-walking backward until his heel hit. He knocked his helmet against the table, then scrabbled for the edge and pulled it down, the clatter of plates and chopsticks almost lost in the noise of weapons fire. Mason hauled himself around the table. Flimsy, it would serve as visual cover only, but it was better than nothing. He felt the little Tenko-Senshin vibrating in his hand. After a moment, he clicked it off and put it back inside his jacket. His hands searched the floor, fingers feeling the hilts of weapons. He picked them up, feeling their weight.

  A dollar says you’ve picked up swords, Mason.

  His overlay kicked back in, tracing the room’s outlines over blackness. A burst of snow rained, the overlay dropping off, before
flaring back on.

  “—On, but … Understand?” said Carter.

  “No, I do not fucking understand.” Mason felt the table kick his back as small arms fire hammered it. Metal, sharp and hard, plinked off his helmet. “What the hell is going on?”

  A scream cut across the room. Something arced and crackled on the far side of the room, and Mason’s vision cleared. The overlay cut out, replaced by text scrolling up from the bottom right. He caught the words system BIOS and reloading as the text raced.

  “You back with me?” said Carter.

  “Yeah,” said Mason. “Lattice is down. Overtime’s not working.”

  “Their hacker was pretty good.” Carter’s voice carried something else. Maybe respect. “Not quite good enough. Your augments are rebooting. Give it time.”

  “I don’t have time.” Mason risked a look over the table. The thin man with the portable deck was on the ground, smoke wisping out of the side of his head, the hole where the jack was charred black. The remains of the cable to his rig had burned away.

  Mason saw the Reed man was down, splayed back on the floor. Metatech wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but neither was the enforcer. The three Tigers he’d originally marked on his HUD were still standing. One had a red tattoo across her face. Another was a huge man, a set of chains passing through the skin of his face. The third was a man with a mohawk and the moves of a dancer.

  “I see you’ve left me three.” He considered the weapons he’d picked up. A pair of butterfly swords. Right first time. “I’m not sure, strictly speaking, that these are part of the Eighteen Arms of Wushu.”

  “They’re not replicas. Stop whining,” said Carter. “Just go cut a bitch, okay?”

  Mason stood from behind the table. The three gang members paused, then the woman with the red tattoo smiled.

  “There’s still one left,” said the woman with the red tattoo. “He’s mine.”

  The huge man put a hand on her shoulder. “No. I want this one.”

  “We take him together.” She shrugged his hand off, reaching under her jacket and pulling out a pair of submachine guns. “What’s it going to be, company man?”