Mason looked at the guns, then into her eyes. “I think it’s going to be like this. You’re going to shoot your friend in the balls. Then I’m going to throw you out the window behind me.” He moved from behind the table, his left foot sweeping out to clear debris. The lattice tugged at his calf, and his overlay flickered off for a second. Mason ignored it, breathing slow and even.
The man with the mohawk narrowed his eyes, looking at Mason’s foot, but didn’t say anything. He held back, fingers twitching at his side.
The woman laughed. It sounded genuine. “I’m sorry, but no.”
Mason tucked the swords by his side, throwing himself into a tumble toward the big man. The woman’s submachine guns chattered after him, tearing chunks from the floor. Mason’s roll took him behind the big man, the woman still firing. A look of horror passed over her face as the big man stumbled, blood spraying from the bullet holes. Nasty — explosive rounds. Mason readied the swords, stepping over the big man’s corpse. He swung twice, then stepped back.
Red Tattoo looked at the stumps where her hands had been. The submachine guns fell to the ground, hands still holding the grips. She backed away, leaving a trail of dark red on the ground, spatters raining from her wrists. Red Tattoo stumbled as her foot hit the table Mason had crouched behind.
Mason stepped forward, planting his foot into her stomach and pushing. She sprawled back, hitting the window, the glass cracking. Mason frowned, then did a spinning kick. He hit her high in the chest. The woman’s body smashed through the window. A half a second later a thump came from the street below.
He turned back and looked at the big man’s body. There were bullet holes up his leg and into his chest. No groin shot. “Close enough.” Mason held the swords loose by his side, small drops of red falling from the blades.
A slow clapping sound made him turn. Mohawk had his hands held in front of him, fingerless gloves muffling and shaping the sound at the same time. The last Tiger said, “Impressive, company man.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call us that.”
“It’s what you are.”
Mason shrugged. “It’s no crime to have a job.”
A feral smile lit Mohawk’s face. “Come now. You take it a bit further than just a job.”
“Maybe.” Mason flicked blood off one of the swords, the drops spattering against the floor. “Still no crime. Now take you guys. Coming in here. Busting up the place—”
“We own the place.”
“And attacking me and my associates. That sounds like a crime.”
Mohawk put a little pout into his voice. “Aww. Did we hurt your delicate corporate negotiations?”
It was Mason’s turn to smile. There wasn’t anything happy about it. “You have no idea. Tell me, what’s your malfunction?”
“My malfunction?”
“Yeah. You come in here, a bunch of big swinging dicks. Aside from,” Mason tipped his head at the broken window, “your token female.”
“She wasn’t a token. She was my girlfriend.”
“Unlucky,” said Mason. “So you come in here, wanting to pick a fight with ‘company men.’ You can’t win that fight.”
“I don’t know. It almost worked.”
“Didn’t even come close,” said Mason. “Now it’s just you and me.”
“Sam is still out there.”
“Sam?”
“The big guy.”
“Ah,” said Mason. “The enforcer.”
“Yeah,” said Mohawk. “I guess you’d call him that.”
Mason took a step forward. Mohawk stepped back. Mason said, “Sam’s a smoking ruin right now.”
“He’s a total conversion. Against a norm? Please.”
Mason laughed, a little mirth in it this time. “That guy wasn’t a norm. He was Metatech.”
“Meta… Shit.” Mohawk shrugged. “Okay, so Sam’s probably dead. But we got one of yours.” The man pointed toward the Reed man, lying still on the ground.
“He’s not one of mine,” said Mason. “We going to do this, or what?”
“Do what, company man?” But Mohawk moved, Mason following. The two men circled each other. Mohawk reached into his jacket, his hand coming out with what looked like the grip of a sword. There was no blade.
Mason looked down at the butterfly swords he held. “Don’t you think that’s a little unfair?”
Mohawk’s lips were thin and nasty. “Sometimes it’s got to be like that.”
Mason’s overlay fuzzed with static, then cleared. A blinking cursor on the bottom right spat out some text. The text said ALL SYSTEMS ONLINE. Mason smiled. “Yeah. Sometimes it’s got to be like that.”
He tapped the lattice, overtime rising like a tide. The color washed from the light. Mason’s tongue felt too slow and thick to speak. His optics marked the sword grip the other man held, highlighting the nano filament blade of the weapon as it slid out.
They ran at each other. Mohawk held his sword over his head, a classic kendo strike. Mason slipped to the side, the lattice gritty and unsynchronized as he stepped close. He struck, both blades entering Mohawk’s back. Mason felt the other man shudder through the hilts of his swords.
The nano filament sword fell from his hands with a clatter.
Mason smoothed the lattice off, overtime dropping like a shroud. He tasted cinnamon and spat on the floor. He checked the other man. Dead, heart and spine severed.
Mason went to look at Mohawk’s fallen sword. The handle stood from the floor, the blade fallen right through. He could hear a soft hum from the weapon. Vibroblade, maybe. He didn’t touch it, thinking of the Tenko-Senshin in his holster. “Carter.”
“Yes?”
“We’re going to need a cleanup crew down here.”
“They’re already on their way.”
“Cops?”
“Of course.”
“Can you—”
“You talk to the cops,” she said. “I’ll talk to the chief of police.”
“Thanks, Carter.” Mason walked to the window, looking out. The steady stream of people on the sidewalk continued past and over the woman’s body below. “I hate Chinatown.”
The cop was a short fat man who smelled of bad coffee and too much work. His body armor didn’t quite cover him, stomach pushing through between the chest and leg plates.
“So, citizen,” said the cop. “You were just minding your own business.”
“That’s not what I said,” said Mason. “I was trying to have a business meeting.”
“Right. Minding your own business, like I said.”
Mason looked down at the man. “You make it sound like it’s … what’s that thing you guys do? That’s it,” he snapped his fingers, “like it’s a crime. You do crime, don’t you? Fight it, I mean.”
“Look, pal—”
Mason held up a hand, stepping back from the smell that wafted from the cop. He watched the police drone as it hovered, taking evidence photos. Red and blue lights licked over the walls as it scanned, light lasing out in flashes of green to mark out things the tiny AI considered evidence. It stopped over the sword grip sticking from the floor.
The cop looked over his shoulder at the drone. “Got something to add to your statement? Maybe want to tell me about the sword?”
“No.” Mason sighed. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“What?” The cop stepped forward, looking into Mason’s face. Mason tried not to breathe. “What doesn’t have to be this way?”
“Am I free to go?”
“Are you…? No, you’re not free to go.” The cop took a step back. “What’s your rush?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Then I’m free to go.” Mason nodded to the man, starting toward the door. He stepped over the bodies on the floor. He paused by the Reed man.
The cop was a half-step behind. “Hey, buddy.” He put a hand on Mason’s arm.
Mason looked down at the hand. The cop followed his gaze, then pulled
his hand back like he’d been stung. “Are you putting me under arrest?”
“I’ve still got questions. Wait a second.”
“What is it?”
“I got a call coming in.”
Mason nodded. “You’d best take that. It’s your boss.”
“My … what?”
“Your boss.” Mason shrugged. “I don’t know about you, but I usually answer when the boss calls.”
“Look, just… Shit.” The shorter man pointed at Mason. Mason’s optics noted the armor of the cop’s gloves were worn. Police budgets don’t stretch quite far enough, do they? “Don’t go anywhere.” The cop got a distant look as he took the call. Cheap link, probably. No multitasking upgrade.
No overtime.
Mason crouched by Reed’s body. “Carter?”
“Yes, Mason.”
“I take it that the chief of police is calling?” He reached for the dead man’s sunglasses.
“I hope so. I woke him up.”
“How’d he take it?” The sunglasses came free. Mason looked them over. A nice pair, but nothing special. Nothing you’d be testing out for the company.
“Not well.”
“Do I have anything to worry about?”
Carter barked a laugh. “You? You’ve got lots to worry about. There’s a couple rival syndicates caught up in this now. One of them’s got a dead agent. And you’ve managed to piss off a local gang.”
“I meant, from the cops.”
“Oh,” said Carter. “Them. No.”
“No?”
“No. The South Sun Tigers, though. Those guys…”
“I understand.” Mason sighed. “Look, what do you think of this?” He held the sunglasses in front of his optics so Carter could take a scan.
The overlay mapped the sunglasses, a manufacturer and model number appearing in the corner of his overlay. “They’re sunglasses. Pretty expensive ones, but off the rack. Nothing custom.”
“Right.” Mason turned the dead man’s face toward him. “Ah.”
“Ah?”
Under the body was a spread of red, too shiny to be blood. “That’s not blood.”
“No,” agreed Carter.
“This guy isn’t dead.”
“It’s not a guy,” said Carter. “Kick it to thermal for a second.”
Mason’s optics switched to the softer blues and brighter reds of thermal. He looked at the bodies around him, already cooling in death, then to Reed’s body.
Stone cold blue, except for a rectangle of white heat at the body’s core. “Is that a machine?”
“Yes,” said Carter. “Reed Interactive sent a robot to meet you.”
“It wasn’t a robot,” said Mason.
“You’re sure?”
“Play back the video, Carter. It wasn’t a robot.”
There was a pause. “You’re right. It wasn’t a robot. Say.”
“Yeah?”
“What’s not a robot, but looks like one? If you were into synthetic entertainment, what’s the next logical step?”
“Jesus, Carter. Is this a sexbot?”
“You always think in straight lines, Mason. Just bring it back with you.”
“What about the cops?” Mason switched his optics back to visual light, glancing at the cop. The man’s face was an unhealthy red.
Carter giggled. “I’ll make another call.”
“No, it’s all good. Leave this one to me.”
“It’s always work, work, work with you, isn’t it?” Carter dropped the link with a click.
Mason went to the cop, who looked like he was caught between running and standing still. “You done?”
The other man swallowed. “That was the chief of police.”
“I know,” said Mason. “Can I go now?”
“There’s a small—”
“You’re on the take from the South Sun Tigers.”
The other man’s eyes bulged. “Now just wait a goddamn minute—”
“No,” said Mason. “No, I won’t wait a minute. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’ll deal with the Tigers.”
“I—”
“You’re on the take, but they’re going to be upset with you for letting me walk. Way I see it, you need to get in front of it.” Mason grabbed the Reed body by the jacket lapels. “Kinda sucks. Have a good night.”
He walked from the restaurant, hauling the body with him. Mason made it to the big Suzuki. He linked to the bike, warming it up. He tossed Reed’s body over the front near the handlebars, arms and legs dangling down either side.
The bike hummed, waiting. Mason reached into his jacket for the Treasurers, lighting one. He hoped Reed wouldn’t come looking for their synthetic body before he had time to finish his cigarette.
Chapter Twelve
The Hole was comfortable, like a well-worn shoe. It was Bernie’s place of business. Not just a bar, some throwaway commodity in a world that gave zero fucks about tenure or prestige. The Hole might die, but it was evergreen. Ready to be born again.
There were no customers at this hour, because daylight was when creatures of darkness scuttled for cover. Bernie hated his customers were illegals. Not because they flew under the radar, because that made disposal easy. No, he hated illegals because they were broke. They paid their cover charge with surly need, buying the barest level of liquor to keep them on an even level.
Get some real money. Start a bigger place. Move uptown.
Bernie scratched his belly, looking over his glass at the two company men. The whisky was old and tired, but the price was right. Bernie was on one side of The Hole’s worn bar, the syndicate reps across from him. “It’s legit.”
The one from Reed snorted. The man wore his company-cool attitude, douche sunglasses on inside. “It’s hardly legit, Eckers. If it was legit, we wouldn’t be dealing with you.”
The Metatech suit was just as big an asshole as the Reed douche canoe. No sunglasses, but he wore arrogance like other people wore deodorant. Metatech was too good for this part of town. They dealt in mil-spec hardware. Brokering arms deals with wicker-basket dictators. Selling WMDs to governments big enough to pay. But he was here anyway, because ol’ Bernie had a deal. Not something they needed. Better — something they wanted. Metatech tugged his cuffs, looking at Reed. “How you feeling?”
Reed frowned, lips making a moue under the douche shades. “I feel fine.”
Bernie glanced at Metatech, then at Reed. Normally these assholes shot each other in back alleys. Concern for each other’s welfare was off-script. Best be careful, Eckers. “Great. You’re feeling fine. Would you feel better than fine making money?”
“Because,” said the Metatech asshole like Bernie hadn’t spoken, “I saw you get shot.”
“What?” said Bernie. He was pretty sure he’d have noticed something like that. “I didn’t get shot.”
“That’s right,” said Reed, glancing at Metatech for a long, cool, douche-powered second. “It’s a neat trick.” He tapped the side of his nose.
Metatech sighed. “Fucking Reed.”
“Yes,” said Reed. “At least we don’t do so much shooting.”
“Seriously,” said Bernie. “What the fuck are you guys talking about?”
“It’s not your concern,” said Metatech. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the bar. “Who do I have to kill to get a drink around here?”
Bernie felt his heart increase its pace, struggling a little with the direction the conversation went. Metatech could kill him. Probably wouldn’t. At least, not until their business concluded. Probably.
A drink, then. Sure. Whatever. Bernie reached under the bar, hand dropping to the rack of glasses. He touched the shotgun strapped under the bar, a solution for emergencies The Hole might have.
“I wouldn’t,” said Metatech.
Bernie froze. “Wouldn’t what?”
“The shotgun,” said Metatech. “I just want a beer. Don’t need a glass. Don’t want to shoot you either.”
Reed nod
ded, as if they’d had an asshole convention and agreed on terms before walking in. Maybe they had. “Not until we know what this is about, anyway.”
Bernie removed his hand from the shotgun, nice and slow. He turned, sliding open a door frosted over with old ice. It hid many wonders, such as cheap beer. “Whatever. It’s just a glass. There’s no shotgun.”
Metatech laughed then, some genuine mirth crinkling his eyes. “You don’t deal with us very often, do you Mr. Eckers?”
“You? Fuck no. First time I’ve seen you assholes.”
“Not us,” said Reed. “People like us.”
“Company men,” suggested Metatech.
“No,” said Bernie. “You’re all motherfuckers.”
Metatech pulled his hand from under the bar, placing a sidearm on the top. It gleamed with military precision, promising an efficient death. Bernie wasn’t sure what it fired, and he didn’t want to find out. The metal made a dull clunk against the wooden top, just one more mark on the old brown surface. “Careful.”
“Hold up,” said Bernie. “I invite you to my place of business—”
“The Hole,” said Reed.
“S’right,” said Bernie. “The Hole. Ain’t no other like it.”
Reed looked around, taking in the stage hiding in its shroud of gloom. “That’s the truest thing you’ve told us today.”
“Like I said.” Bernie looked at the Metatech sidearm, waiting on the bar like it needed a purpose. He hadn’t seen anything quite like it before. The barrel looked too big, too wide, for such a small weapon. Bernie put two beers on the bar. Be cool. It’s just a business meeting. “You guys need me to open these?”
Both company men shook their heads. Reed opened his with a twist of his wrist. Metatech popped his cap with a fucking thumbnail.
“Sure, okay,” said Bernie. “You don’t need an opener. Good. Fine. I invite you down to my place, my home, wanting to do a little business. And you come in here, full of company attitude. Syndicate men, getting in my face.” He grabbed his glass from the counter and took a hit of the whisky.
Reed and Metatech looked at each other. Reed sipped his beer. “Your home? You live in this shitty dive?”
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