by Jim Keen
“Is the delivery on schedule?” she said.
“Yes, everything is proceeding per our agreement. The first one hundred are en route to West Point for review and testing. I have a further five on ice pending their field trial permits.” Conroy turned to the mayor. “Once I receive military approval, it will take another month to complete the initial batch. Being forced to use that old helicopter, of course, slows the delivery.”
“I understand your dislike, but I can’t have anything logged into air traffic control. The chopper is off record, and we will continue with it for now.” The mayor’s voice held a faint Brooklyn drawl.
“How is everything else?” Conroy said.
“The printing of redesigned and augmented humans still remains a federal offense, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“And?” Conroy clenched his fists. Thornley spoke so slowly, it always took ten questions when one should do. It was hard not to reach over and strangle his avatar.
“Politics is invariably a compromise—you understand that, Mr. Bank,” Thornley said. “I’ve not announced trials yet, as certain associated parties want the riots to start before any press releases.”
Associated parties—the other New York families, you mean. As if I don’t know all about your little side deals. Conroy settled back in his chair. There was no point forcing this conversation; all he would do is make them defensive. He needed them for now, so it was best to act that way. “Of course, and I await your schedule,” he said.
The mayor smiled back. “Patience, Patsy. Once the Augments are on the streets, the increased health and welfare spending will quash any dissent.”
“You’re sure you can control the debates?” Alisson asked. Thornley ignored her.
“How is the military schedule?” Conroy said.
Alisson consulted her uniform; white text scrolled across her sleeve. “A month for the full trials. If the reprints work to specification, I see no reason why we can’t move straight to production. Fourth Ward can instigate the riots in thirty days, plus or minus.”
“What about the president?” Conroy asked Thornley. If you can’t see she’s the wild card here, you’re an idiot.
“The mayor’s office can unilaterally call a state emergency. It’s protocol for us to consult the White House, but not law. She’ll get involved—too many financial donors here—but I have the authority to request unilateral military intervention. The city’s budget is a bigger challenge; six weeks and New York is bankrupt.”
“That should be enough,” Alisson said. “If Fourth Ward can keep the heat on the streets.”
“Food is already constrained. When I close the Bridge’s markets, things will tip. Don’t worry, there’s no way the NYPD will cope once this gets going,” Conroy said.
“I need the switchover complete in six months. The NYPD has to be off the city books by then.”
“I can deliver my side of the agreement,” Conroy said to the mayor. “You abide by yours?”
“Yes, yes, of course. How many times do I need to answer this? Deliver, and your precious family will get its legal status approved. Now, if there is no other business, I have a press conference to attend.”
“One more thing,” Conroy said.
“What?”
“The Bridge’s lease is up end of the year. I need to know where we are on this.”
“Do your job and the mayor’s office will approve a motion to extend all bridge and tunnel business parks for another five years. Good enough?”
Conroy said nothing; he stared at the mayor, who fidgeted, nodded, and closed his Virt session.
“What do you think of him?” Conroy said to Alisson.
“New York has over twenty-seven million people on or below the starvation line. He has to try something new.”
“Are your investments secure?”
“As long as you deliver, and the reprints do their job, I shall spin the department off as a research incubator by year’s end.”
“What will you do with all the money?”
“You don’t expect me to live on the ground forever, do you?”
“No ma’am,” Conroy said and removed his visors.
His quarters were small and cramped, the air stuffy. He sipped a glass of cold water; took two painkillers. The edges of a headache pulsed behind his eyes. This had already been a long day, and there was still so much to do.
12
“World gettin’ colder, people gettin’ colder. You gotta adapt, see?”
Five Points hitman “Candy Pops,” Manhattan, 2053
“Look around yourself, then tell me the MI revolution is a bad thing.”
Cortex Employee No. 37, speaking from her Caribbean island, 2053
Red had never fallen to his death before, so didn’t know what to do. In the end he settled on a mixture of flailing about and screaming. Something grabbed his arm and flipped him over until he had no idea what was up or down. The multicolored coral of the Bridge’s construction spun around him.
Another grab, then another. Each time his velocity dropped as a thin and hard line dragged against him.
The next one stuck across his chest; it was a strand from the bird-catcher nets. Their composite fibers were capable of extreme deformation: really stretchy and sticky.
Red crashed through another net, and it fastened to him like a spider’s web, slowing his fall. Then another, another. He spun and saw people below him, three in a line, facing off against someone dressed in black. He couldn’t move, couldn’t shout, the cocoon smothering him as he struck the three people like a bowling ball, knocking the center person out cold.
He came to a rest facing a woman dressed in black. She moved with a machined elegance to draw a huge silver gun from a rear holster. She fired from her hip like an old-school cowboy, the noise deafening. Her wrist flexed, absorbing the recoil; she fired again, again, her aim unerring. The jeeks either side did a weird dance as they took the bullets, and fell away to leave Red trussed and gagged in front of the woman.
“Not what I had planned,” she said and ran to him. “Thanks, kid. You okay?”
“Hmmmm. Mm. Mmmm,” was all he could manage.
“Why are you asking him questions? Why? Am I the only one who can see he’s unable to communicate?”
Red couldn’t tell where the second voice came from, but it was quiet and distorted like a blown speaker.
“Not being able to talk is an appealing personality trait right now, why don’t you try it?” the woman said into her jacket collar. The only people who wore SWAT gear this smart were Scorchers or Cosa Nostra, and she looked Japanese or something, definitely not Sicilian. What the hell was a cop doing here? She had to be part of a larger team, which would explain the explosions.
“Not your best reply,” her clothing said, then went quiet.
The woman kneeled and flexed her wrist in an odd movement; a long white dagger dropped into her hand. She was a Scorcher then: the ceramic blade had the blue NYPD logo stamped on its side. She slipped it under part of the catcher nets and cut upward in a fast, sure stroke. The pressure on Red’s chest lessened, and she flipped him over like a dead fish and did the same to his back. There was tugging, a snap, and his arms came free.
He heard shouting in the distance as ricochets fizzed around them.
“Kid, I leave you here, they’ll finish the job. Hold on.”
She rolled him back over, grabbed the webbing across his chest, and dragged him like a burst suitcase into the alleyway. Gloom descended as soon as they rounded the corner, sky visible in flashes through the bundles of cables that spanned the space.
The woman was thin and strong, built like an athlete, but Red could tell she was hurt. Her body sagged to the right, and she kept rubbing her lower ribcage, gasping in pain. He used his free hand to tear at the webbing covering his face.
“Cut me out. I can move fast,” he said.
The cop looked back up the alley, gnawing her lip, then stopped and bent to the task. “Stay s
till. You twitch, I could end up cutting you.”
“You’re a Scorcher, right?”
“That a problem? You don’t look like Fourth Ward either.”
“No, I’m freelance, got a job, just passing though. Where’s your team? Think I can hitch a ride out?” Red knew to never trust a cop, but it was worth asking if it saved your life.
“I’m on my own in here.”
“What? This is the Fourth Ward. You can’t be here by yourself.”
“They’ve got my partner, but I can’t get backup without evidence proving he was kidnapped.”
“I thought Scorchers looked after each other.”
“You’re supposed to, but then you’re not. It’s a judgement call—hell, I don’t know. Ask my boss if I still have one.”
She cut the last of the strands and Red struggled upright. He was bruised but okay, though his jacket was a mess. Most of the album artwork he’d spent hours on was gone, which was a real pisser.
“You should disappear, kid,” she said. “Sticking with me will raise your health insurance premiums.” She ejected the gun’s clip and loaded new rounds with red markings. “Things are going to get ballistic before they get better.”
What to do? He looked around. He’d seen the Bridge from up high, and there was no way through down here. If he was going to deliver, he needed help.
“You’re a cop, yeah? So you have to protect me, right? I need to get to the island.”
She looked at him long and hard, sighed, clicked her collar. “Suit, call in a rescue team to pick him up. Any contractor will do, charge my card.”
“Don’t forget your rent is due and you require two new ribs. We don’t want a mess like last time, do we?” her jacket said.
“It’s an extraction—pick him up, drop him off the other side. Can’t be that much.”
There was a moment’s silence; Red wiped his sticky hands on the wall.
“That’s annoying,” the jacket said. “Communications are being jammed. It’s sophisticated as well—smells like military gear to me.”
“Local or wide?”
“From the scale of the Bridge, I’d guess wide. See if your aerostat can get high enough to send a message.”
“For once a good idea.” The cop pulled a small black drone from her pocket, shook it, put it away. “Except it took a round somewhere.”
“Well then, you’ll have to climb and see if we can get a clear signal higher up. Obvious if you think about it for more than a second.”
Red knew the clothing wasn’t alive in an MI way, but it sounded so human that he smiled.
“Mike’s tracker came from the upper decks; drop the kid off and go in for him?” she said.
“If we must.”
The cop turned to Red. “What’s your name?”
“Red.”
“I’m Officer Yu, though I suggest you call me Alice while we’re in here. I can’t get you out right now, but you’re welcome to join me or go your own way.”
“I’ll come,” Red said. He would drop her the moment it got bad, but she had offered to get him out.
“Let’s go.” She turned and headed away into the dank alley.
Red followed Alice as she worked her way through a network of alleys. He was lost in moments. At first every unit and street looked the same, but he started to notice differences. Some units were clean and new, lights bright in the twilight. Others, deeper in, were dark and dirty, uneven floor filled with brackish puddles that stank of oil and coolants. There were rich and poor here, just like everywhere else.
“Where we headed?” he asked, panting. Alice set a hard pace.
“We need to get back inside, there are too many eyes out here.” She stopped at a junction box. “But I don't know enough about the interior layout to tell if there is a prison cell or fusion reactor behind this wall. I’m looking for a maintenance doorway, something that will put us back into the low-level ductwork.”
Ahead of them lay a collection of rusted yellow shipping containers, and behind that rose the tall gray facade of the Bridge’s cooling system. It was warmer here, soft rain dripping from the network of overhead cables. Somewhere close by, hot metal ticked as it cooled, and the floor vibrated with distant machinery. They’d not seen anyone in minutes. The sun faded to leave them in blue darkness. Crimson lights glowed to life, the oil-rig-sized superstructure edged with ship’s lighting.
“We move up there and bust our way through the first entrance we come to.” She pointed to a metal service wall near to the vertical ducts, and set off.
At the next junction, food stores and a bar formed a small town square. Janky electronic music drifted from the beer shack, which had a busted neon sign out front flickering Unknown Pleasures in a font Red didn’t recognize. Two old women sat on its porch, drinking oily yellow liquid from jam jars. Alice beckoned for Red to stop, but he stepped past her, and approached the ladies.
“I like the name of your bar,” he said.
“We don’t serve kids. Get lost,” one of the crones said.
“We’re looking for a way though, no questions. She can pay.” Red pointed at Alice, except there was a hole in the universe where the cop had been moments ago.
The women looked at each other, cackled, and approached him.
“What’s a little chicken like you doin’ out here all alone? Where’s your mama?”
The mention of his absent mother made Red blush, anger and shame mixing.
“Aww, lookit him,” the other woman said and took a deep swig of the clear drink; she stank of paint thinners and old apples. “He’s blushing. Poor little boy. You looking for a good time? That the deal?”
Red looked around for Alice, but she was long gone. Icicles formed in his blood as he edged backward. “No, nothing like that. I need a way through to the island is all.”
“Little chick want a guide? What you think, June?” One crone nodded to the other.
“I think his pecker ain’t up to use yet, is what I think. He better turn over his pocket money right now, as I’m getting thirsty.”
Red tried to run, but the women were quick and grabbed at him. They were horribly strong, their thin arms fueled by liquor. The one called June pinned him against a faded steel wall, cold and hard against his back. The other started to search his pockets. He kicked out, struggled. “Get off me, I’m warning you.” But his words rang hollow.
“Well lookit this.” The second woman held up the letter, its clean, yellow rectangle at odds with the surroundings.
Seeing it in her hands made Red crazy, and he writhed, out of control. “Give it back, that’s mine.”
June banged him against the wall; his vision sparkled and blood filled his mouth.
“Kick me one more time, boy, and I’ll cut you slow, let you bleed out on the floor, you dig?”
Red said nothing.
“Okay, let’s see what else you gots.” Next she found his five dollars. Both women cackling with joy at their unexpected windfall. That was it, all he had. June let him go and he slumped onto the hard floor.
“Please, give it back.”
“Nah, finders keepers. You still want a way through?” June said.
“Not without that.”
“There you go then, we done you a favor, yeah? There’s no passage to the island here, it’s a dead end to any non–Fourth Warders. You’re better off running home, boy. Go, git.”
“At last, something useful from this conversation.” Alice stepped behind the two women and placed a long, telescopic black rod against June’s neck. There was a blue flash, and the old hag did the electric jitterbug and fell to the deck with a bang. The stink of cooked meat and cordite filled the air.
“Now then,” Alice said to the other woman without a pause, “I believe you have this young boy’s five dollars. He offered money in exchange for information, you have replied in kind. Take it, and return to your nasty little life. Pretend you never saw us. Say anything, I’ll come back here and burn your shitty bar down
into slag. Do we have a deal?”
Alice’s sudden appearance had left the other woman stunned. She looked between Alice and Red, eyes bulging, then down at the money in her fist. That broke her spell, the pale blue note meant a big night for her. She nodded at Alice, gave Red a lifeless stare, and slinked into the shadows.
Alice tossed her day stick, its battery dead, and plucked the letter from the unconscious woman’s grip. She read the address, face cracking in surprise, and turned to Red. “Who the hell knows Charles Takamatsu?”
“This barkeep in Brooklyn. Dive called the Crazy Horse.”
“Interesting.”
Red pushed away from the wall, flicked his collar up, and took the letter. “Why the hell you let her take my money? That was mine.”
“We all need money, kid. Figured a lesson was more important.”
“Oh please, do educate me,” he tried to sneer, but just sounded young and out of his depth.
“There are more ways to buy something than money. Look around, what do you see?”
Red didn’t bother to turn his head. “It’s a wrecked bridge full of turds crawling over each other.”
“Wrong. This is a family. They’re in it together. The ones that live here won’t sell Bank out for cash—not the amount we have, anyway.”
“Then we’re screwed.”
“No we’re not. Come on.”
Alice turned and ran with a skipping gait that Red tried to match. There was a sourness in his mouth, guilt over his mother’s demands ever present: clothes, food, drink, on and on, an eternal shopping list. He’d failed to keep the money but he would make the mail drop no matter the consequences.
Alice led him to the tall metal wall that rattled with a low hum. A locked door punctured its side. She used her smart key to open it and they slipped though into the cold, dark silence.
13
“It was fine up here, just fine, until the printers came online. After that we became just another resource to fight over.”
