by Jay Posey
Walk like you own it, he told himself. Nobody’s gonna stop you as long as you look like you know what you’re doing.
As they approached the main gate, a pair of greenmen stepped out from a small shelter. The big one held out a hand, motioned for them to stop.
“Afternoon,” Three said.
“Sir,” the big one replied. Professional, not friendly. “Where you comin’ in from?”
“Here and there.”
The second greenman stepped around to one side, his hand resting on some gunmetal chunk of tech on his belt. Three couldn’t identify the weapon exactly, but he got the gist. Something mean. The big greenman looked the three travelers over, face neutral.
“You gonna make trouble for me?”
“No, sir.”
“How long you plannin’ to stay?”
“Three days, maybe.”
“You bringin’ any contraband with ya?”
“No, sir.”
“Weapons?”
“No, sir.”
The greenman gave a fleeting smile at that.
“Yeah,” he said. The two greenmen exchanged a glance. Three reached deep, forced stillness. Greenmen were hard men: hard to read, hard to anticipate, hard to kill. Three realized the anxiety he felt over Cass and Wren was clouding his judgment of the situation. What was the glance? Was it “Get ready” or “What do you think”? The other greenman shifted on his feet, adjusted the Whatever It Was on his belt. Was he getting ready to draw? Did he even have to draw it to use it?
The muscle in the big one’s jaw was working. His eyes were level, probing. Taking too long. Something was up. Could Dagon have beat them here? Three slowly flexed his left hand and rotated his wrist, releasing the small blade from its secret housing, its grip sliding silently into his hand. The greenman’s high collar had steel fixtures; might deflect the blade. Have to go for the eye. Shield, draw, fire. One shot, make it count.
Then the big one nodded.
“Alright. You folks have a real nice stay.”
Three blinked, exhaled. Hoped no one noticed.
“Will do.”
He pulled Cass and Wren ahead of him, nudged them along. As they passed the guards, Three quickly produced a pair of nanocarbon chips from his vest, and discreetly tipped the greenman a generous hundred Hard. Not required, but always appreciated.
“Cute kid,” the second greenman said, as the two guards headed back to their post. “Keep him close.”
Once they were inside, Cass dropped back a pace, and leaned in close.
“What was that?”
“Don’t talk. Just stay with me. Stay right with me.”
Three reached down and took Wren’s hand in his, drew the boy close to him, right up against his leg. Cass fell in a pace behind, but tight. And Three locked his gaze forward, powered his way towards his destination, doing his best to look like he was on his way to kill the man responsible for leaving this woman and child alone in the world. And trying to forget just how close he’d come to killing two of the good guys.
Cass followed as closely as she dared without stepping on Three’s heels. Fought to keep her eyes focused forward, her face grim, as if she’d been through these streets a hundred times before. For the first time, she had seen Three rattled, and that terrified her. Was it this place? Or had something happened with the guards that she’d missed? There was an electric edge, a lightning crackle around the fringes of each breath, that told her danger was on their heels here. Maybe all around.
She realized her fists were balled tight. Forced them to relax. She risked a glance around. It was different here. The buildings, the layout, the people. Greenstone was uniquely itself in the midst of a sea of sameness outside its walls. At its base, it was purely institutional: a cold gray concrete uniformity. Built for function. For control. Regular angles. Squares. Boxes. Bunkers.
And yet, life here had sprung up wild; lavish decorations covered every front, every window. Lights, paint, scrap welded into art. Some garish, some elegant, some shocking, some breathtaking. As if the populace, forced into a sterilized conformity, had rebelled in explosive individual expression. Celebrated it, even.
The people themselves, far from the rough-hewn and downtrodden survivors she’d expected, sported outfits of bizarre experiments in fashion. Tech as clothing. Faces tattooed into digital oblivion. A woman covered from head to toe in a color-swirling translucent plastifabric garment stood in apparent conversation with a small Asian man, naked from the waist up, who had circuitry embedded just beneath the surface of his skin in patterns like veins and arteries, giving the impression that if cut, he might bleed light.
Three strode purposely through the crowds, which were much denser than Cass had anticipated. It took nearly ten minutes to reach their destination. And to Cass’s eyes, the destination didn’t seem to be worth the walk. It was a narrow building that looked like it’d been wedged between the two on either side well after the other two had been built. The door was blacked out, and only about three-quarters the width of a normal door, and the front of the building was painted in a Japanese cartoon-styled motif, with a wild-looking samurai; shirtless, a piece of straw dangling from his lip, sword held high above his head, and a bottle of a well-known brand of Irish whisky dangling from his belt. A hand-written sign lay propped against the wall, apparently having fallen off the door and never repaired. Scrawled in red paint both in neo-kanji and common English, it read “Samurai McGann”. A dull, pulsing beat sounded from within.
Three paused, turned, and gently pushed Wren into her care.
“Keep to yourself in here. Clientele’s a mixed bag.”
“There isn’t a better place we can go?”
“Lotta connections run through here,” he answered, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, added, “And I need a drink.”
He pushed open the door, and the droning sound grew louder. Cass realized it was some fusion-style of music. And she wasn’t sure she liked it. She picked Wren up, and followed Three inside.
If Three had been worried about Cass getting them noticed, the fear seemed unfounded. As far as she could tell, no one in the place had even looked their way when they came in. The Samurai McGann was pretty clearly a bar of some kind, but beyond that it was tough to judge what exactly its business amounted to. There were tables, mostly occupied though not full, as well as hard-wire jacks and terminals for various transactions of questionable nature. Three found a booth off to one side of the place, and directed Cass and Wren in that direction. As she removed her pack and Wren’s and stashed them in a pile, Cass kept an eye on Three. He approached the bartender, had a brief conversation, and then came over and joined them. He slung his heavy pack onto the bench and dropped into the seat across from Cass.
“Where’s your drink?” she asked.
“Later. Gonna try to take care of some business first.”
Cass cradled Wren in her lap. His eyes were wide, drinking in the fresh assault on his senses, but he seemed to be in good spirits.
“Got any food here?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know you want it. Let’s see how things shake out first.”
Three was just turning to look back over his shoulder when there was a flash of motion. Three’s head went down, the muzzle of a jittergun pressed hard into the side of his face. He went still, and Cass’s heart stopped cold in her chest. It’d happened so fast.
Then, there was laughing. And the man with the gun was sitting at the table, grinning like a skull, and Three was half-smiling, shaking his head.
“Gettin’ slow in your advanced age there, Numbers,” the man said, apparently amused. “You get my letter?”
“No, Twitch. Still hasn’t come yet.”
An old, running joke apparently.
“Family man now?”
“Cass, her son Wren,” he said, motioning to each in turn. “Friends of mine.”
The man extended his hand, the stubby jittergun now safely in a holster he wore high on his belly, righ
t next to its twin.
“jCharles,” he said. He was tall, thin, with sharp features. Quick movements, but precise, like he could start and stop at the exact point he wanted to, but move at top speed in between. Almost mechanical. Cass couldn’t help but wonder just how fast he could draw those jitters.
Cass shook his hand, as did Wren when it was offered.
“How long you in for?” jCharles asked, apparently to Three, though he was still looking at Cass.
“No longer than we have to be. We need some things.”
jCharles nodded, checked over his shoulder to the bar, and made some vague motions. The bartender nodded. jCharles turned back to Cass, smiled.
“My place. If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve cleaned up a bit.”
“What’s the word on q-dose?” Three asked.
Straight to business.
“Tabs or jector?”
Three looked to Cass, prompted her.
“Tabs.”
“No worries. Couple hours maybe.”
“And how about these?”
Three placed a closed fist on the table, opened it slowly. jCharles swept whatever it was into his hand, swift as a magician. He smiled and winked at Cass again.
“Spatz¸ brother. Thirties?” he said. Then grimaced, glanced at Wren, then back at Cass. “Sorry, I have a filthy mouth.”
Then to Three, slipping the item back to him. Cass figured it was an empty shell from Three’s pistol.
“I don’t think I can help you there. Eighteens I can do pretty easy. Maybe a couple twenty-fours at best.”
Three nodded, seemed to be expecting that. Cass suddenly felt a pang of guilt over her reckless firing outside the Vault, and wondered just how precious a resource she’d wasted. Far more than she’d realized, that much was certain.
The bartender swung by and dropped off four beverages. Three small mugs of a golden-brown viscous liquid for the adults, and something aqua and fizzy for Wren. It smelled vaguely fruity.
“Can I try it?” he whispered.
“Sure, baby.”
Wren leaned forward, and sipped out of the straw. His eyes lit up almost immediately.
“Good, huh?” jCharles said. “Made that one up myself.”
Wren nodded, and then sat back against Cass. Shyness setting in. Probably exhausted.
“And the big favor,” Three said.
“Yeah?”
“We need on the train.”
jCharles actually looked stunned by that. He let out a low whistle. “That’s quite a shopping list, brother.” He shook his head. “I can try to arrange a meeting, but that’s about the best I can do. Afraid you’re gonna have to talk to Bonefolder yourself for that one.”
“You can arrange it?”
“I said I can try to arrange it. No promises.”
“Try hard. It’s important.”
“Yeah, I’d guess so,” jCharles glanced at Cass and Wren again. A different look in his eye now. “Where you stayin’?”
“Nowhere yet,” Three answered. “Just rolled in.”
“Alright, I’ll set you up,” said jCharles. He swept up his mug, downed the contents, and then slammed it on the table as he stood. He moved like an animation skipping frames. “Drop upstairs if you want, Mol’s in. I got some business to attend to this afternoon.”
Three nodded, waved slightly, and jCharles was gone. Cass waited for Three to elaborate, but of course he didn’t. Finally, she prompted him.
“So… Bonefolder? That doesn’t sound like something we want to do.”
Three just nodded. Took a sip of his drink, grimaced, shook his head.
“Sit tight for a sec. I’m gonna go see Mol, let her know we’re here.” He stood, scanned the bar. Then added, “And do not chug that.”
Cass and Wren sat silently, Wren occasionally leaning forward to sip his drink. The Samurai McGann was a busy place, people coming and going, but mostly minding their own business. So it was strange when Cass saw the man by the door, staring at them. She didn’t recognize him, and he looked away quickly. Though there was something vaguely familiar about his eyes. As he walked out, she noticed he walked with a limp, but thought nothing more of it. It wouldn’t be until much later that she would place him.
Nineteen
Three climbed the back staircase with heavy steps. Weary. Far more so than he felt he should’ve been. He was used to being the one on the hunt, not the other way around. It was a slow burn, never being able to rest, never feeling safe; it was beginning to take its toll. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this fatigued. The guards at the gate… he shook his head. Losing his edge, when he needed it most. And he wasn’t sure when he’d get it back.
He hoped he’d get it back.
The stairwell was poorly lit, and its corridor was so narrow Three had to twist his torso to keep his shoulders from rubbing the walls on either side. An iron door stood guard at the top, painted over with some kind of pale green rubberized coating. There was no landing. The stairs just dead-ended at the base of the door. Three stood on the last step, gathered himself. Mol was in there. Always tough to see her.
Before he had a chance to buzz in, heavy mechanisms slid and chunked inside the door, and it swung away from him, and light flooded into the corridor, and she was there. She gave a little yelp, and in an instant her arms were around his neck.
“What are you doing here? Did you just get in? Does Twitch know you’re here?” Her perfume hit him: gentle, faint, but like a sledgehammer of memory. Like rain and moonlight on the ocean. And he was suddenly conscious of all the sweat and grime thick on his skin.
“Heya, Miss Mol.”
He dropped his hand on the middle of her back, gave her half a squeeze. Careful to avoid the jack and steel housing at the base of her spine. She pulled back, beaming.
“Don’t you ‘Miss Mol’ me! What are you doing here?”
“Passing through.” He tried to smile. It came out broken.
“Well, get in here. You bring anything with you?”
“Yeah, more than usual. Couple of guests this time.”
“Oh,” she said, obviously surprised. “OK. Well bring ’em on up. You need help with your gear?”
“No, I got it. You sure it’s alright?”
Her expression went flat, like he’d insulted her. She swatted his shoulder.
“Go get your gear and your friends. You see Twitch yet? I think he was heading out…”
“Yeah, on the way in.”
“Good. That means he won’t be gone all day. You sure I can’t help you with anything?”
“You’re helping me now,” he said, and winked at her involuntarily. “Be right back.”
She nodded and as he turned and headed back down the stairs, he could feel her watching him. When he was about halfway to the bottom, he heard the little whirs and clicks of her walking back into the upstairs apartment. The sound of the servos and micro-hydraulics that made her lifeless legs useful. The sound that broke his heart, every time.
He found Cass and Wren where he’d left them. Cass hadn’t touched her drink. Wren’s was empty.
“Hey,” Cass said when she saw him. Her expression shifted. “You OK?”
He nodded. “Mol’s waiting upstairs.”
“Mol is…?”
“A sweetheart. jCharles’s wife.”
He grabbed his pack, swung it up on a shoulder. Reached down and took Cass’s in a hand. Paused. Nodded towards Wren. “He ever seen a nerve-rig before?”
Cass thought, shook her head. “Not that I know of.”
“It gonna be a problem?”
“Full rig?”
“Half. Just the lower.”
Cass nodded, understanding. Something in her eyes said more than Three wanted them to. He had the disquieting sense that she was starting to get a read on him. She looked down at Wren, still sitting in her lap. Spoke quietly.
“Wren, the person we’re going to see upstairs has a special machine. To help her wa
lk. It might look a little strange, but we don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable, OK? So we’re not going to stare at her, or ask her about it, OK?”
“Is she sick?”
Cass looked up to Three. He shook his head.
“No. She got hurt. A long time ago.”
A long time ago. As clear as yesterday.
“OK.”
Three hoisted their packs, shook Cass off when she tried to help.
“This way.”
He led them back up the stairs, letting the burden of all the gear focus his mind on something other than Mol. The first few minutes were always the hardest.
She’d left the door cracked open, so Three nudged it with the top of his head and leaned in.
“We’re back.”
He heard her moving around in the back room.
“Just throw your stuff anywhere,” she called. “I’ll be there in a sec.”
Three pushed in, slung the packs in an out-of-the-way corner by the door. Glanced around the apartment. Pretty much the same. The door opened right into the main room; a large, comfortable space that somehow seemed wider inside than the building had looked on the outside. It was warmly decorated, with oversized furniture. Old, dark woods. A kitchen was off to one side, and the other side led to the back room where Mol was now, which Three knew had a storage area in addition to jCharles and Mol’s bedroom.
“What are those?” Wren asked, looking at the one oddity in the apartment, across the room. jCharles’s life’s work, obsession, and personal treasure all in one, stacked on shelves that ran nearly the entire height and length of one wall.
“Books.”
Collected, scavenged, rescued, and restored. Ancient works, last known copies in existence. Masterpieces standing alongside some of the worst specimens of the written word ever penned by man. All worth saving, as far as jCharles was concerned.
“What do they do?”
“They’re full of words, baby,” Cass answered. “Stories and things. From a long time ago.”
