Chromed- Upgrade

by Richard Parry

  “What don’t you get, Mason?” said Carter.

  “Why the sunglasses?”

  “It’s the eyes,” said Carter. “Caught a glimpse of myself … Itself? I saw its eyes in the elevator mirrors.”

  “I figured the eyes were all kinds of screwy because it was a dead guy.” Mason turned its head. It felt like a human. Skin still warm. Soft flesh. A little stubble.

  “No. I think there’s a point of view problem,” said Carter.

  “A what?”

  “Or focal point issue.” Sasha sounded more certain, now they were entering her field of expertise. “Carter and I are still talking about that.”

  “Yes. There are divergent theories.” Carter didn’t sound like both theories held equal weight for her.

  “Fine. You two can start a group. All I really need to know? How to tell one of these apart.” Mason let the head go, the soft thud as it hit the armory floor just like a human’s would sound.

  It wasn’t good to dwell on how he knew the sound of a human head hitting the floor so well.

  “I’d check the eyes. Anyone with sunglasses? Shoot them in the head. First.” Carter paused. “I’m pretty sure the head is the kill spot.”

  “That seems overly enthusiastic. What if there’s some guy just wearing sunglasses?” asked Sasha.

  Mason stood, finding himself in front of a suit of armor. It stood in a glass case like the rest, but the front was stenciled APSEL FEDERATE — MILITARY APPLICATIONS. The suit was the only white one Mason could see, the Federate’s falcon emblazoned in black on the chest. “Carter, what’s this one for?”

  “You want me to call Frank?”

  “Who the fuck’s Frank?”

  “Francesco. Head of Military Applications.”

  “No.” Mason remembered his meeting with the division head. “He’ll lie.”

  “Ah.” Carter made the noise sound like agreement. “Here it is. A demo model. Urban pacification. It’s had a test run. We’ve even got a signed sales contract subject to the usual.”

  “The usual?”

  “Test run, blah blah, pursuant to subclass ass, paragraph boredom.”

  Mason laughed. “Got it.”

  “Whatever. Fairly standard loadout. We’ve even put an Everlife fusion power system inside.”

  “Okay.” Mason peered inside the case. “Why’s it still boxed up?”

  “Maybe they don’t want it scratched before the test run.”

  “It’s perfect.” Mason touched the case’s access panel, unsealing the glass. It whispered open, soft puffs of cold fog curling out to nestle around his feet. Mason pulled off his jacket, putting the Tenko-Senshin on a bench. “I think I’ll take it for that test run.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I don’t know why you didn’t requisition a bigger team.” Carter’s voice sounded clear despite the rain against Mason’s helmet. The new urban pacification armor had good audio, and better audio insulation.

  Just the kind of thing you need when rioters scream at you. Mason looked through The Hole’s skylight. A man and woman waited inside looking nervous, along with some illegal merch to sell. About what he’d expected. “You’re clever. Why do you think I didn’t want a bigger team?” The bar looked as he remembered.

  “Because you want to fail?”

  “Change the question.” Mason shifted his feet, careful not to scrape his boots on the roof’s tiles. They were old and chipped. Lichen clung with determination despite the acid rain. Life wants to live, and sometimes, make a little bank. It came down harder than it had in days. Active camouflage in his armor’s skin held light close, making Mason hard to see. “What do you get with a bigger team?”

  “More dudes. You get a lot more dudes. They draw enemy fire, so you don’t get shot. Again.”

  “Right. Can you give me a scan of the area?” Mason waited, almost invisible in the rain. The benefit of top-shelf armor wasn’t just being invisible. It was being invisible and dry. Not a leak anywhere.

  “Sure.” Carter paused. “Wait. A what?”

  “A scan. I’d like to see how many dudes are out there.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “Maybe. But if we had more dudes, as you put it, there’d be a bigger fingerprint. A signature, saying loud and proud that the Federate was here. With me and my active camouflage, we keep this on the down low. Uncle Gairovald won’t be on the news.”

  “He doesn’t care about the news.”

  “He cares about his stock price.” Mason gave a quick visual scan of the area. No one had joined him. “And the news affects the stock price.”

  “I might have misjudged your intelligence. This whole forward-planning thing you’re doing? It caught me by surprise. You’re still an asshole, though. When do you want Harry to drop in?” Carter’s voice held the barest hint of admiration. I’ll take it.

  “When I’m ready,” said Mason. He checked the skylight again, the room still empty except for two important people, one of them Apsel’s own. And the box.

  It sat in the middle of the room, Apsel’s falcon big and black on the lid. He couldn’t see from this angle, but he reckoned it’d be stamped with ATOMIC ENERGY DIVISION.

  Mason remembered black lipstick against the silver foil of a cigarette. He pushed the memory aside. If she was here, that was just bad luck. It was just he didn’t want her going down as collateral damage. Hell. You don’t even know her name. You’ve done worse. Focus, Mason.

  “You could take the shot from here,” suggested Carter. “That’s the mission. Kill the thief, destroy the tech.”

  “Try to keep up.” It wasn’t often Mason was a step ahead of Carter, and he didn’t mind admitting he enjoyed it. That’s why you’re in the field. This is why Gairovald trusts you. You don’t take the easy path. And you never make mistakes. “How do we know she’s the thief?”

  “Well… Because she deleted all records and ran from the syndicate.”

  “Eh.” Mason nodded, pretty sure Carter watched from one of the many cams around the area. “It says she’s shady as an old porch on a hot day.”

  “So, take the shot.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hell, Mason. I don’t have time for this.”

  “We’ve got all the time in the world. Until the buyers get here, anyway. What if she’s shady for a different reason? Or there’s another thief? We need to cover all the angles. Make sure she’s alone.”

  “Then you take the shot?”

  “Something like that. I’m still working out the finer details.” He glanced at the case next to him. Rain ran dark rivulets down it. The Apsel falcon glinted. Good enough for all manner of problem-solving.

  Mason looked back into the room. Carter dropped targeting reticules on his overlay. She marked the first one AF HARAWAY in big letters. The second she marked as JD UNKNOWN.

  “He’s not John Doe Unknown. He’s Bernie Eckers,” said Mason.

  “How do you know?” asked Carter.

  “It’s his bar.”

  “Right. What if it’s some other asshole here for a drink after work?”

  “Touché.” Mason sat on the roof, the light from the skylight struggling to find purchase on his armor. Water flowed off him, causing the active camouflage a little trouble. Damn this rain. “I hate the waiting.”

  “You could have brought a chair. Or, wait. Hey. You could have just gone in the front door.”

  “You’ve got no sense of style.”

  “I work in computers. What did you expect?”

  “It’s why you never go dancing, am I right or am I right?”

  Carter sighed. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

  “I’m just saying there’s something wrong with you. You work too much.” Mason didn’t want to admit it, but a chair wouldn’t have been a crazy idea. Finding a chair with active camouflage? Tricky.

  “You don’t complain when I get you intel.”

  “I’m not complaining. I’m concerned.”

&
nbsp; She barked out a laugh, the link crackling like it chuckled along.

  “Hey. What was that?” Mason stiffened. He felt tension between his shoulder blades, like he was being watched.

  “What was what?”

  “The link.”

  “On it.” Carter’s voice dropped all trace of humor. “They’re here.”

  “Who?” Mason reached for the case.

  “Uh.” Carter paused. “All of them, I think.” A map appeared in the lower right of his overlay. Mason zoomed it, the map filling his vision. Green road lines sparred with red buildings. The 3D model was complete down to the old wires strung between buildings. Hell, Carter had marked the sewers, complete with rats.

  Those might be for artistic effect.

  Mason saw two convoys of vehicles approaching. Carter marked them, RI from the north and MT from the south, text sliding over each vehicle’s icon.

  “Just Reed Interactive and Metatech?” Mason frowned. The show should be bigger.

  “There’s like twenty cars coming. From each syndicate. You wanted more?”

  “I expected more for this level of tech.”

  “You’re welcome.” Carter sounded smug.

  “For what?”

  “I … fiddled a few things.”

  “You ‘fiddled?’” Mason looked into the room before checking on the map again. Nope. No one magically appeared. No extras entering from stage left either. “Where did you send them?”

  “Different bar.”

  “Same city?”

  “Maybe,” said Carter the way people meant not even a little bit. “You do your job, I’ll do mine.”

  Mason opened the clasps on the case, letting a breath out he hadn’t known he was holding. “Thanks.”

  “You still get Reed and Metatech,” said Carter. “They’ve got good deckers. Couldn’t cut ‘em out. Not all of them, anyway.”

  Mason opened the case, the rain eager to fill the corners. The weapons he’d selected waited inside, uncaring of the water. They were designed for far, far worse conditions than this.

  He zoomed the map out, dropping it to the corner of his overlay. A lone icon caught his attention. It hadn’t been there before and wasn’t mixed in with Reed and Metatech forces. “Carter?”

  “Mason.”

  “Is that icon me?” The icon sat on The Hole’s roof where Mason stood. He zoomed the picture. “It doesn’t look like me.”

  “You don’t look like much at the moment,” said Carter. “You’re wearing light-refractive armor, so I needed to be creative.”

  Mason pulled two submachine guns out of the case, setting them on the roof. SMGs are good for close work. High enough rate of fire to make people cautious. Big enough caliber to make an impression. “Who is it? I don’t recognize him as one of ours.”

  Carter laughed. “That’s not surprising. It’s Gene Kelly.”

  “Gene who? Who’s Gene Kelly?” Mason searched the Federate’s corporate directory. “I get a Gene Kelly in Policy. It’s a woman, though. This picture is a … what was the word you used?”

  “Dude.”

  “This Gene Kelly is a dude. Not the woman in Policy.”

  “Look it up,” suggested Carter.

  Mason hefted a rifle from the case, checking the action. It gave a soft whine as if it were eager for the night to begin. He sighted along the barrel, then put it on the roof next to the SMGs. He then switched an SMG on. It gave a brief hum, the status lights along the top of the barrel cycling from red to green. His overlay gave up data on Gene Kelly while he worked.

  It didn’t find anything in the Federate archives. The information came from the public networks. “Ah.”

  “Ah?” said Carter.

  “He was a dancer.”

  “I thought you’d appreciate it. Hey. Game’s on. I get groups fanning down the side of the building toward the rear. It’s going to get messy in there.”

  “I certainly hope so.” Mason stood, the rain hissing down his armor. “I didn’t want to get dressed up for nothing.”

  “You want Harry?”

  “Not yet. Let’s get the link up though.” He put the request through. Harry came online, his face showing in the top left corner of Mason’s overlay. That’s not his face. There’s nothing left of his real face. “Harry. What’s up?”

  “It’s cold up here, Mason. It’s really fucking cold.” Harry looked pissed off, like he was the one standing for an hour in the rain.

  “Do you need a hug?”

  “I don’t need a hug. I’m just making conversation.”

  “It’s raining down here. How’s the weather inside, Carter?”

  “It’s good. I’ve got the air conditioning at twenty-one.” She had smug dialed a little higher.

  “Fuck you both. This better be worth it.”

  “I promise, before the night’s done, you’ll get to shoot someone.” Mason looked up, rain falling over his visor. He could see nothing but clouds, but somewhere up there…

  “That’s all I care about.” Harry sounded satisfied. “Am I cleared to drop?”

  “No. That’s what I’m calling about. You get Carter’s map update?”

  “Yeah. There’s a lot of assholes where you are.” Harry paused. “Who’s Gene Kelly? You got someone from Policy on an op?”

  “Look it up. Public networks. Can you handle a force of that size?” asked Mason.

  “Is the Pope still a God-fearing Catholic? Assuming I don’t ice up, I’ll be fine.” Harry paused. “Is the Pope still a God-fearing Catholic? I haven’t kept up with the news feeds.”

  “Metatech’s out there. They won’t be using pop guns.” Carter made the MT icons flare briefly. “Those dudes.”

  “Dudes?”

  “Dudes,” she agreed.

  “I see ‘em. Do I sound worried?”

  “You sound cold. Do you need a blanket?”

  Harry laughed. “I get this shit from my own handler, Carter. I don’t need it from you too.”

  “Carter, be nice to Harry.”

  “Why?”

  Mason locked the SMGs against his belt, then racked the rifle on his back. “Because I’m pretty sure he’s going to save my life tonight.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bernie paced, letting his gaze linger on Haraway one more time. She was worth looking over, and he had the time and opportunity. Haraway seemed too agitated to notice.

  Rain hissed, soft and muted on the roof tiles. Thank Christ it’s not steel sheeting. That’d be loud, and with all the rain in Seattle, shit’d get old, fast.

  What wouldn’t get old was that clinic-perfect body Haraway wore. Bernie figured it wasn’t the meat she’d been born in. None of the syndicate people were original. Didn’t stop a man from enjoying the view, though. “Want a drink?”

  She jerked, like he’d yanked her from deep and important syndicate thoughts. “What?”

  “A drink. Do you want one?” Bernie walked behind the bar. “A little southern hospitality, maybe.” He waved a bottle.

  “Sure. Fine.”

  Bernie found clean glasses, pouring while glancing over her again. Those syndicate bitches were fine. A splash of liquor escaped the glass. Plenty more where that came from. “Here.”

  She joined him at the bar. “Thanks.”

  He nodded, trying for eye contact. Eyes aren’t in the chest, Eckers. “No problem.”

  “Mr. Eckers.” Haraway didn’t touch her drink, instead examining the hole those company assholes punched through his bar. “Is this going to be clean?”

  Bernie leaned back. His eyes were drawn to the box. APSEL FEDERATE — ATOMIC ENERGY DIVISION, whatever the hell that meant. Atomic Energy and rain? Who gives a shit. It’s the percentage. The metal was flat and gray, heavy locks above a panel. Flat and gray didn’t matter. The money mattered. “Clean?”

  “Clean.” She had the look of someone struggling for more appropriate words. Haraway’s new at espionage. Not that Bernie was experienced, per se. He just had a better
idea of what the world owed him. She drank, coughing. “Jesus. What is this?”

  “A little somethin’ somethin’. We make it out back. House special.”

  “Special’s one word for it.” Haraway took another sip. Only one of her eyes screwed up this time. “Is this a negotiation?”

  “The drink isn’t a negotiation.” It was, given sufficient quantity and enough time, an all-access pass. Bernie held his leer in check.

  “No. This.” She used her glass for emphasis, taking in the bar, the box, the stage, and for all Bernie knew the universe with a wave. “The syndicates deal in good faith, right?”

  “Kinda sorta.” Bernie thought back to the two company men in his bar. One of them snapped a gun across his leg like it was matchwood. “They really want what you’ve got. That makes it a little easier.” He glanced at her breasts again.

  Haraway didn’t seem to notice, looking at the box. “Do you have the generator ready?”

  “Yeah. See the cables on the stage?”

  She twisted, giving Bernie a good look at her tight body in profile. Damn. Maybe you should look for that bonus, Eckers. “Yeah, I see them.”

  “Just plug ‘em in. They’re normally for music shit. Lights, amps. I dunno, whatever the hell those musos use.”

  Haraway looked doubtful. “Music?”

  “It’s loud. It’ll be fine. Trust me.”

  She looked over her glass. “What a curious phrase. Why would I do that?”

  “You company types, you’re all the same.” Bernie tried for a little honest indignation. “Regular guy like me, just trying to get by? You think we’re trying to steal from you.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s why I said it.”

  “It’s not like that.” Bernie put his empty glass on the bar, reaching for the bottle. “Another?”

  “No.” Haraway shook her head. “I’m still working on this one.”

  “Your loss.” Amber liquid splashed into his glass. Bernie’s hands shook a whisker, so he gripped the glass hard and took a slug. Just something to settle the nerves. “I got you the place. I cleared it out. Friday night, busiest night. I’m losing money here. And I got you my contacts.”

  She looked at the door. “They’re late.”