Metatech frowned, ignoring Reed. “You said you wanted to do business.”
“S’right,” said Bernie. “Got something.”
“What kind of something?” said Metatech. He hadn’t touched his beer. Metatech had the air of a man who’d found cheap beer could hold unpleasant surprises, the sour taste hiding all manner of horrors. It was true, but not this time. Bernie wasn’t stupid enough to poison a company man.
They’d just send another. “Syndicate something, if you know what I mean.”
“Apsel,” said Reed and Metatech together.
“What?”
Metatech laid his hand over the sidearm’s grip. He spoke low, almost like he was talking to himself. Working a problem through in his head before taking action. “You’re trying to sell us Apsel ‘something.’”
“What?” Bernie squinted. “Why would you say that?”
Reed put his beer on the bar top, shifting the bottle between his hands. It made a low grinding noise, like a back-alley clinic’s bone drill on extra slow, extra painful. “Because Apsel aren’t here.”
“Maybe I don’t like Apsel as much as I like you guys,” said Bernie.
“We’re motherfuckers,” said Reed.
“All of us,” agreed Metatech. “One motherfucker’s much like another. It’s the money on the table that matters. You’re a fixer, Eckers. You care about the percentage.”
“Right, which brings me to the next point. The money,” said Bernie.
“No,” said Reed.
“No?”
“No,” said Metatech. “We don’t talk about the money. We talk about the product first.”
“Can’t tell you about the product,” said Bernie. He leaned forward, trying for conspiratorial. Just three guys, all on the same team. He looked between the company men. Same team, my ass. These assholes are absolute, total motherfuckers. “But you can trust me. It’s good shit.”
“I don’t think I would trust you, Mr. Eckers,” said Reed. “Not in business. Not to serve me beer that’s not watered down—”
“Hey!” said Bernie. “It’s straight from the bottle!”
“And definitely not with my life. If you can’t tell us what the product is, you should tell us where it’s from. What it’s worth.”
“Millions,” said Bernie.
“Millions,” repeated Metatech. “That’s a broad spectrum.”
“It’s the truth,” said Bernie. He held up his hands. “Okay, okay. You got me. It’s Apsel tech. Straight from one of their R&D heads.”
“Ah,” said Metatech. “Is a defection part of the deal?”
“Last time we got one of your cast-offs, the product was defective,” growled Reed.
Bernie looked down at his belly, thinking of a tight young body held against his in a back room. “It wasn’t defective. You just didn’t use it right.”
“And you say we’re the motherfuckers,” said Reed.
“A defection. Sure. It’s a part of the deal. I don’t care about that,” said Bernie. Fucking Haraway. “You get the brain with the box.”
“Box?” said Reed.
“Yeah.” Bernie nodded. “It’ll come in a big metal box. You can take it out on the same forklift you bring my piles of money in with.”
“You seem pretty sure we’ll want to buy it,” said Metatech.
“Yeah.” Bernie grinned.
“We’re not getting anywhere with this,” said Metatech. He snatched his weapon up faster than Bernie could blink, pointing the barrel at Bernie’s forehead. “What’s it going to be, Eckers? We leave you dead on the floor, or you tell us why you’re trying to set us up.”
Red glowed at the bottom of the sidearm’s barrel, like a dragon’s eye. Bernie watched it like it was a snake. “I, uh.”
“Come now,” said Reed. “You know the rules of this game. We’re not going to give you money unless we know what’s in the box. We’re certainly not going to bid against each other without some foresight. It just doesn’t work that way.” He straightened his sunglasses, ignoring the weapon trained at Bernie’s head.
“Uh,” offered Bernie.
“See, the problem is that we’ve already met with Apsel. Just a little earlier today,” said Metatech.
“You … what?”
“We,” Metatech nodded to Reed, “met with Apsel.”
“You met with Apsel?” Bernie swallowed, his throat drier than the Vancouver desert. Motherfucking Haraway. “What did they say?”
“They said not to buy the box,” said Reed. “They said it’d mean war.”
“War?” Bernie thought this whole thing was getting out of proportion. It was just money. A good deal for everyone. “There hasn’t been a syndicate war in—”
“We know,” said Metatech. “Only an idiot would try to broker a deal at this level.”
Bernie’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times. He could feel sweat trickling down his back, his too-tight shirt sticking to him. “I’m not trying to—”
Reed kicked through the bar’s wooden front. Splinters and glass sprayed Bernie’s legs as glasses died in droves. The company man leaned in, grabbing the shotgun. “No shotgun, you said.” Reed hefted the weapon, glancing at Metatech. “Think we should believe him on the money?”
Metatech hadn’t moved a millimeter, which meant his sidearm still pointed at Bernie’s head. “No.”
Reed checked the shotgun’s breech. “Loaded.” He cranked the lever, a shell spinning out the side. “Seems to be well-maintained.”
“Yeah.” Sweat trickled down Bernie’s face. Be cool. You’re dead if you panic. “Shit happens here sometimes.”
“Shit is about to happen. Right here, right now,” said Metatech.
“I swear!” The situation was unraveling. Bernie tamped down on panic, wondering if his life was measured in minutes rather than years. “I’m not trying to rip you guys off!”
Reed glanced at Metatech, then back to Bernie. “No, I guess you’re not.” He brought the shotgun down against his knee, the weapon snapping in half at the breech. Metal and shells rained to the floor.
Bernie could feel a warm wetness in his pants. He was going to die here, and it was all that bitch Haraway’s fault. “Goddamn Haraway.”
Metatech leaned forward. “What did you say?”
“I—”
“Jennifer Haraway? Atomic Energy? Apsel Federate?” The Metatech man paused, looking at the beer in front of him. His sidearm still pointed at Bernie’s head, like a promise. “I might even forgive you for trying to lace my drink. If Haraway came with the box…”
Bernie swallowed, struggling for words that might save him. Any words. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“What’s in the box?” asked Reed.
“The rain,” said Bernie. “The rain’s in the box.”
Chapter Thirteen
“I love it when you bring me presents,” said Sasha. A slab stood between her and Mason. The metal was cold, but the body on it didn’t care.
It was the Reed operative.
Mason dragged the carcass to one of the Federate’s labs. He’d invoked privacy controls, the windows now coal-black. Sound inversion fields stopped their conversation from being overheard. Even in the heart of the Apsel tower, you could never be too careful.
“You’re welcome,” said Mason. He lifted the body’s arm, letting it fall back on the table. The knuckles were scraped and bloody. It’s not like it’s easy to carry a dead guy on a bike. Sue me. “But it’s not really for you.”
“Oh, don’t be like that,” she said. “I’ve taken off my wedding ring and everything.” Her tone was playful, but the lab was professional and clean. Pristine. That’s the word. Not a tool out of place. Mason didn’t expect anything else. It’s why he always went to Sasha first.
Carter’s voice came over the room’s sound system. “Have you two finished?”
Sasha looked up. “Why don’t you come down, Carter? This will be fun.”
“I don�
�t do field work.”
“This isn’t field work,” said Sasha. “This is my lab. It’s inside.”
“You’re about to cut open a dead guy, which is waaaay out in the field. Me? Computers. I do computers.”
Sasha winked at Mason. “She’s going to miss out on the orgy later.”
Carter gagged. Mason threw Sasha a quick smile. “I’m not sure if ‘miss’ is the right word. She’s been cranky since she lost a fight with a hacker earlier today.”
“I didn’t lose a fight. The guy died.”
“Sure.” Mason nodded. “He died. I also went blind. Way to have my back.”
“You’ve got no sense of the dramatic,” said Carter. “Coburn?”
“Yes, Carter?” Sasha put on a medical visor, the clear perspex covering her face. “Changed your mind?”
“No. I just want you to cut Mason first.”
Sasha grinned. She selected a small rotary saw, clicking its switch a couple of times, the machine whining. “So. Anything you want to tell me about this guy before I do the autopsy?”
Mason walked around the medical slab, pushing a console out of the way. He checked the Reed body one more time, taking in the expensive suit. It was a robot but dressed for success. Mason offered Sasha Reed’s sunglasses. “He was wearing these.”
“I’m not sure if that’s quite … wait a second.” Sasha held the saw out to one side, cocking her hip. She tapped her jaw, making no move to take the sunglasses. “Wearing them inside?”
“That’s right. Inside. Weird, right?” Mason tossed the glasses into a tray beside the slab. “He seemed otherwise fine. A bit of an asshole, maybe.”
Sasha leaned over the body. “We’ll have to take the suit off first. Fibers will clog the saw, you know how it is.” She gave Mason her patented once-over. “We can see if he’s in as good condition as you.”
“Oh, please,” said Carter. “I’m going to be sick.”
Mason laughed, then helped Sasha take off the Reed body’s clothes. The suit was tailored. It fit the body like the Reed guy spared no expense dressing his robots.
“Here,” said Sasha. “Help me roll him over. He’s heavy.”
“Yeah,” said Mason. “I had to carry him. I know he’s heavy. It’s why it’s called dead weight.”
She frowned, tapping a display set into the slab. “Says he’s one thirty-seven kilos. He doesn’t look fat.”
“No. He works for a syndicate. He can afford a clinic.” Mason shrugged.
“I don’t think you’re telling me everything I need to know,” suggested Sasha.
“Maybe not, but there’s not much more to tell.” Mason thought back to the meeting with Metatech and the Reed asshole. “We had beer. Got in a fight. Turned out, he was a robot that bleeds.” He went through Reed’s jacket. Spare weapon. Energy cartridges for it. A pack of cigarettes.
“A robot?”
“Did I forget to mention that? Been a busy night.” Mason turned the cigarettes over. What does a robot need cigarettes for?
“You were going to let me take a saw. To a robot. With a probably-still-live power core.” Sasha reached for the cigarettes. “You mind?”
“You always say there’s no smoking in here.” Mason handed her the pack, keeping one for himself.
“I’m not going to smoke,” she said, tapping a cigarette from the pack. “They look normal.”
“They’re cigarettes,” said Mason, raising the cigarette to his mouth.
“There’s no smoking in here,” said Sasha.
Mason looked over the top of his lighter, then lit the cigarette. He took a deep pull. “Well, that’s a piece of pure grade shit.”
“Why? Is it a cigarette?”
Mason took another pull. “Oh, sure. It’s a cigarette. The man has no taste though. They’re Camels.” He stubbed it out on a tray beside the slab, pulling Treasurers from his pocket.
“There’s no—” Sasha stopped at the click and snap of Mason’s lighter. “I don’t know why I bother.”
“Me neither,” said Mason, blowing smoke toward an air vent. “It’s like you’ve just met me or something.”
“My lab is going to smell like a bar for a week.”
“You’ll need someone to throw up in here for that,” said Mason. “Get some whisky, too.”
The Reed body waited, naked. To Mason’s eye, it looked like any syndicate enforcer. Guy worked out. Watched what he ate. Spent time at a clinic to smooth out nature’s bullshit. The gaping through and through bullet hole didn’t take anything from it.
“He looks … complete,” offered Carter.
“Very,” agreed Sasha. “Can you flip him for me?”
Mason turned the body, his bionics making the task effortless. Complain as he might about dragging a hundred thirty-seven kilos of robot carcass up here, but his augments trivialized it. Sasha didn’t have the same mods.
She wasn’t built for the street.
“What’s that?” Carter dropped a red box on Mason’s overlay, highlighted the base of the robot’s spine.
Mason leaned forward, touching the robot’s skin, tracing tiny numbers and letters. “Good eyes, Carter.”
“It’s a serial number.” Sasha squinted. “Definitely a robot.”
Mason pointed at the bullet hole in the robot’s back. “He might be a robot, but a lot of blood came out of there.”
“Yes.” Sasha’s voice dropped all hint of play. “He’s surprisingly detailed. If we didn’t have the evidence, I don’t think you’d be able to tell.” She walked around the slab. “Where did you say you found him?”
“Bar,” said Mason. “We had a beer.”
“He drank beer?”
“Yeah,” said Mason.
“Robots don’t drink.”
“That’s why we’re here.” Mason sighed. “If it was an easy problem, Carter could have—”
“Fuck off,” said Carter.
“I only meant—”
“You should stop talking,” suggested Sasha. “You don’t understand women at all.”
“He rents women. Mason doesn’t have to understand them.” Carter sounded off, like her engine wanted to do more than idle.
“Did it just get colder in here?” said Mason. “It feels colder.” He stubbed out the Treasurer against the slab, flakes of silver and ash falling to the ground. “So, doc, you going to figure out how it works?”
Sasha considered the body. “Yeah, I really think we need to. Carter?”
“Yes, Sasha?”
“Can you,” Sasha wiggled her fingers in the air, “do your thing?”
“Hack the robot?”
“Sure.”
“If you turn it on, I can hack it,” said Carter.
“It’s not on?”
“Does it look on?”
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Mason. “I need to speak to Harry.” He pulled another Treasurer from the pack, lighting it as he left the lab.
Mason found Harry in Apsel’s main hangar. The place was noisy, the thick miasma of oil, metal, and ozone in the air. Techs scurried. Total conversions tried not to stand on them. Mason laid his proposition on Harry, waiting.
“No.” Harry swiveled. He regarded Mason over a workbench that sat between them, spare parts and tools strewn over it. Cables stretched from the back of his chassis into a panel set in the wall. Something exploded a few bays down, sparks and burning fluid spraying into the air.
Mason and Harry watched as repair crews rushed forward, extinguishers blasting white foam over the blaze. Might have been a total conversion’s chassis overloading. Too many mods with too little control, and accidents happened.
“It’ll be fun.” Mason turned away from the dying conversion. He looked up at Harry’s massive bulk. Harry was two to three times the height of a normal human, a titan of gleaming black metal. No hint of his humanity remained.
Except for his voice. That was the Harry Mason remembered. “That doesn’t sound likely, does it? The last time—”
Mason held up a hand. When he spoke, his voice was softer, almost lost in the noise of the service bay. Harry’s audio would pick up his words just fine. The audio was top-shelf, just like the rest of Harry’s modifications. Modifications Harry needed after their … encounter. “I remember.”
Harry leaned forward, servos whining. His hand, a mass of metal bigger than Mason’s chest, pressed against the workbench with a creak. “Do you?”
“Yeah.” Mason flexed his hand, remembering. He looked at it, then back to Harry. “I’d rather it was you out there.”
“Why do you think you need me there?” Harry straightened, the cables from his back slapping and clacking together. “You Specialist Services assholes—”
“You used to be Specialist Services.”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Before this.” His huge hand gestured down at his metal chassis. A new body, after the old one was too broken for syndicate work.
“It’s a good look,” said Mason. “Black goes with anything. Tactical.”
Harry paused, then laughed. “All right, Floyd. Tell me what you think is going down. Why you need me.”
“Sure.” Mason leaned against a bench. A harried tech walked by, head down, muttering to himself. Mason looked after him. “Problem?”
“No problem. He always talks to himself,” said Harry. “Psych doesn’t come down here. We need these guys too much.”
Mason pulled out a cigarette, looking at the silver filter before lighting it. “The problem,” he blew smoke toward the ceiling high above them, “is I’m going to be grossly outnumbered.”
“I kinda figured,” said Harry.
The same harried tech walked by again, looking at Mason. “There’s no smoking in here.”
Mason nodded, pulling the Treasurers from his pocket. He offered the pack. The tech looked around, nervous as a bird, before his hand stabbed out to grab one. He took the offered light, walking away while drawing on the cigarette.
“I don’t know how you get away with shit like that.” Harry looked after the tech, shaking his head.
“Don’t listen to what he said. Listen to what he wants,” said Mason.
“Did you read a book on Zen? One without pictures?”
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