by P. R. Adams
It was after midnight before I had a decent trail established, an accounting consultant working for an Agency shell company tracking down expense reports.
While the fake consultant logged hundreds of requests for information that would ultimately allow me to access the account Chan had created for Heidi’s group, I dressed and went out to the barn and gathered more wood for the fire. My sneakers were stiff against my feet, the result of snow and mud drying fast. If I could sense that through the cybernetics, the material must have been like concrete. Steam trailed around me as I hurried back to the house, wood pressed against the bloodstained jacket.
The fire caught quickly, but I couldn’t stop shivering. My head ached, and despite cybernetic eyes, it felt like I had read too much.
I slipped back into my pajamas and checked the data download—done.
Clumsy finger taps walked me through the files. Most of it seemed to be fleshing out what we had already put together, but one of the most current files detailed more about the Metacorporate Initiative: the supporters, the architects, the intent behind it. It wasn’t just fast-tracking mergers but removing oversight of damned near everything—insider trading, stock manipulation, consumer advocacy, even supplanting the World Trade Organization. If Chan had it right, China wasn’t the only country that would see its influence diminished in favor of corporate hegemony; every nation would be reduced to hosting whatever corporate presence chose to grace its lands.
Chan had laid out a scenario to consider, one where a handful of billionaires and corporate officers manipulated the market value of targeted major corporations, then purchased the devalued stock ahead of a takeover. Long-term shareholders received pennies on the dollar during the acquisition, and a new corporation—a corporation that existed only to run other corporations, a metacorporation—was created. Ownership in the new entity would translate into a whole new level of wealth once it took off. And massive unemployment would follow as people were rendered redundant.
Tens of thousands of cubicle slaves would be thrown out of work with each such mega-merger. The estimated shift in wealth would make previous shifts seem like firecrackers detonating during an artillery barrage.
Was that what was behind the assassination? I’d been thinking of the Agency using the Chamber of Commerce as a front to its own agenda. What if I had it backwards?
I drifted off to sleep, wondering what a decent person would do for a few billion dollars.
Knocking woke me. Sunlight was a pale gold hint against the black sky. After a couple tries, I remembered which way was up and pushed my feet in the opposite direction. Cold wood registered as a sensation on the soles of my feet as I shuffled toward the front door, vaguely aware that I should be alarmed. Who knew I was here besides Margo? Wouldn’t she just let herself in?
There wasn’t much of a view from the kitchen sink, but it was enough that I could make out a big form—tall, wide in the shoulders, carrying something bulky.
I retreated to the bedroom, grabbed the Urban Enforcer, and returned to the kitchen.
Another knock, this one louder.
Law enforcement seeking a murderer would have burst in. Agency operatives would have set the place on fire and gunned me down from hiding.
So, who?
I unlocked the door, braced a foot against it being forced all the way, then opened it enough to get a peek.
Dr. Jernigan looked up from behind a thick, long cardboard box. She wore a heavy jacket—dark, nicely fit—faded jeans, and wool cap. A big change from her office wear. Her heavy jaw was clenched, and a trickle of snot leaked from her angular nose. After a moment, she sniffled and said, “It’s cold out.”
I stepped aside and waved her in.
The floorboards groaned—really groaned—as she crossed to the table. She set the box down, a light rain of snow falling from her jacket and dark brown hair. “It’s not much warmer in here. Can you do something about that?”
“Huh? Yeah. Sorry. I was asleep.”
She looked me up and down, shook her head once, then headed back out while I put more logs in the fireplace. The embers still glowed; the wood began smoking before she returned with another box, which she set on the table beside the first.
She pulled heavy gloves off and glanced around. “Charming, if you like rustic. Any chance there’s power?”
“There’s a generator.”
“In the same condition as this place?”
I couldn’t help smiling at that. “It’s newer, but I’ll need to buy some gas.”
“I just recharged at the station in town. They sell gas?”
“Yeah.”
And like that, she was gone. No questions about the locked gate, the shack hidden from the road, or me wandering around in twenty-year-old pajamas.
A sweet fragrance remained after she left. Orange-like. Perfume. Had she used it before and I’d missed it? As close as we’d worked together, I didn’t think so.
The boxes drew my attention. She’d come out at my request. Did they hold her instruments and other equipment? They seemed to be standard cardboard—thick, sturdy. And heavy. She could have stuffed a deer haunch in those two boxes.
I dug the generator battery out from under the sink, unwrapped the plastic sheet, then hurried out to the east side of the house. The generator was covered by what could have been a carport roof if I’d stayed home long enough to make everything officially mine. Wind plucked at an old tarp that had developed tears and holes. I pulled it free of the anchoring bricks and folded the stiff material into something resembling a square. There were no obvious problems with the generator—the hoses had been coated with petroleum jelly the last time I’d visited. The thing would run.
I sat in front of the fire and waited, dozing off at one point. The sun was fully up when she returned, now wearing a white backpack with sporty charcoal gray and red stripes. She set that on the table with some effort.
She sniffed at her hands and winced. “Running water is probably asking for too much.”
“I can get you some from a pump. It’ll be cold.”
“Soap? There’s ten gallons of gas out there, minus what I got on my hands.”
“Under the sink. It’ll be a little dry.”
She groaned. “I ever tell you how much I love rustic living?”
“No.”
“Good. I hate lying.”
I set the pail outside the door, took the gas canister around to the generator, and filled it. After I hooked the battery up, I checked everything again, then powered it on. It took a few tries before the engine came to life. Once I was sure it wasn’t going to sputter out on me, I took the pail to the pump. I could smell gas on my fingers as well, so I rinsed them first, rubbing the cybernetic flesh hard beneath the water, then filled the pail.
She was waiting at the sink, what might have been a smirk on her lips. In the shadows of the kitchen, her jaw seemed less angular, her face less squarish. As she scrubbed, she looked me up and down again. “You going to tell me what’s up?”
“Just a second. Need to flip the breaker.”
Her voice carried into my room. “Your message said you had a head injury?”
“Yeah. It’s tender, and I’ve got a nasty headache.”
“Mm-hm. You seem to be having problems with balance.”
I was. “I’m pretty sure I have a fever.”
She clenched her jaw. “What you’re asking me to do is extremely dangerous and unethical.”
“Antibiotics and patching up some flesh?”
That earned a stern glare, with both eyes narrowed. “That’s your bed?”
“Yeah.”
“Go lie down. Remove the pajamas if you wish to keep them.”
I settled on the bed as she brought the backpack and boxes into the room. I probably should’ve felt a little awkward, being naked and alone with someone other than Margo in my bedroom. Dr. Jernigan set everything down beside the bed, then pulled her jacket off and draped it across the end of the bed.
Her sweater was stretched tight over rounded shoulders and thick arms. After looking my cybernetic limbs over, she nodded. I guess it was about as bad as expected.
She pulled familiar instrument pouches from her backpack and laid them on the floor, then set a plastic band with a magnifying lens over her head and opened the boxes. They held arms and legs.
My arms and legs.
I blinked. “I guess the fever’s worse than I thought.”
She held up an arm. “You mentioned at one point that you work for some unsavory people.”
“Worked. I’m between jobs now.”
“And did you kill Senator Kelly Weaver?”
I studied her face, couldn’t see any sign of fear. “No. I was supposed to, but I…” Why couldn’t I? Had it been Gillian? Dong? “It didn’t feel right.”
She set the arm on the bed. “So you are an assassin?”
“An operator—infiltration, extraction, hacking…assassination. Yeah. Mostly that.”
She plugged one of her instruments into a wall socket. “Do you normally worry about something feeling right, or was there something special about this senator?”
“Is this a quiz about how someone becomes a cold-blooded killer? If you’re worried about me killing you, I wouldn’t.”
She unzipped a pouch of surgical tools and pressed my head back on the pillow, then squirted some sort of gel on her hands and rubbed them together vigorously before pulling on surgical gloves. “I’m not worried about you killing me.”
“Well, good. I killed enemies of the state. It’s different, just like a soldier in wartime, but I didn’t need the sanction of an official declaration of war.”
“She was an enemy of the state, this senator?”
“No. Like I said, it didn’t feel right.” I was sure I sounded defensive.
“Then why did the people who hired you want you to kill her?”
“I guess the definition of enemy is changing. The definition of a state, too. Looks like it’s more of a host to corporations than anything else. That’s who hired me. Wealthy men. Powerful men. Bad men.”
“The ones looking for you?”
“Stay away from them.”
“I’m not worried about them. But things are changing. Quickly. There have been calls about you and your friend, Miss Ostertag.”
“Heidi? Have you heard from her?”
“Nothing.” She tilted my head away. “Lie still. You have something buried in your scalp.”
She swabbed alcohol along the length of the tender flesh, and I was happy for the false teeth that had been implanted. They wouldn’t chip or crack like real teeth would have as I ground them together to stifle a groan. When she was done cleaning the wound, she began probing with something. I flashed back to the torture sessions in Korea, the voices, the temptress, what they had done to try to break me.
Dr. Jernigan’s voice brought be back to the moment. “You remember there was money available to do significant repairs for you but not to regrow your limbs?” Her voice was cool, matter-of-fact.
I couldn’t manage that, so I hissed between my teeth, “Yeah.”
“And how Maribel Clavel had bulletproof carbon weave beneath a layer of synthetic flesh?”
Pressure against my skull. “How could I forget? She was a bitch to kill.”
“How would you like limbs of your own with the same carbon weave?”
Pain as she pulled something away. “Limbs…?” She’d spent the money left in the account. “Won’t they realize you purchased those?”
“The detailed accounting of your medical expenses was seen by Miss Ostertag. The impression I took from her was that all expenditures were painful for her, but completely at her discretion. And it would seem the people looking for you might want to talk to her about some of her expenditures.”
Heidi had been skimming money? That didn’t sound at all like her. “I mean it—you need to be careful around these people.”
“I have been very careful.” She sprayed something cold on my scalp, and the pain diminished. “You had a bullet fragment in your scalp. I’ve cleaned and sealed the wound and sprayed an antibiotic over the area.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t. I don’t care for this sort of operation, but I care less for what I see going on in the country right now.” She set a hand on my leg, at first brushing the flesh gently, then pinching it. Her tongue slid over her lips. “And that leaves us with a question still about your limbs. Repair them or replace them?”
“How long—?”
“How long would it take to replace them? Not long at all. And you would be functional very quickly. Hours. It’s the same basic interface. Upgraded. More efficient. Faster, once you get used to it. But the same. The enhancements are something you would have to grow into. I can’t spare the time to run you through physical therapy and training again.” That came with a hint of irritation.
“I appreciate all you’ve done already. If you think I can get by with the new ones—”
“It will be more than getting by, Mr. Mendoza.” She pulled a syringe from her gear and filled it with a pale amber fluid. “This will make the entire operation easier.”
The needle was a cold sting going into my gut, but in seconds the pinch of it had faded along with her strained smile. There were sensations of distant pressure and pain, and I was sure I experienced the moment of my arm being crushed beneath the Mitsubishi Sparrow in Seoul all over again.
And then I woke to a strange scene: Margo leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms, scowling as Dr. Jernigan noisily stuffed her pouches back into her backpack. The room seemed colder than I could ever recall. Familiar smells of alcohol and the cleaning chemicals of her office mixed with the wood smoke and mustiness of the mattress. Nausea tickled my gut, no doubt a mix of fading sedative and hunger. And maybe the antibiotics.
“Margo?” I whispered.
Dr. Jernigan glanced at me, scolding. “A friend of yours you forgot to mention?”
Margo straightened. “An old acquaintance, yeah. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to see when I swung by to check on you, Stefan, but it sure as hell wasn’t some doctor playing Frankenstein with you.”
I tried to process the friction between them. “She’s my doctor. She saved my life.”
That didn’t seem to affect Margo at all. “Awfully cozy for a doctor’s office.”
Dr. Jernigan slung the backpack over her shoulder. “Cybernetic surgery doesn’t carry the risks of invasive surgery. Dust and similar objects pose a risk of clogging some of the finer workings, but I happen to be very thorough about cleaning surfaces and contacts.”
“I saw that.” Margo crossed to the bed and pulled the blankets further up my chest.
Dr. Jernigan turned in the doorway. There was a surprising blush to her skin, and she seemed to avoid meeting Margo’s glare. “Should you experience any complications, you can seek me out.”
I waved at her and was surprised to feel the actual sensation of an arm moving, a hand waving. There was no lag, no clumsiness, no sense I would have to relearn using my limbs. “I’ll look you up if I’m out that way again.”
She bowed her head and was gone.
Leaving me with Margo.
When the front door closed, she punched me in the shoulder. “What the hell’s going on, Stefan? And don’t give me any military injury crap. That’s no military doctor.”
“I didn’t say it was a military wound. Why are you all worked up like this?”
“Worked up?” She crossed her arms. Angry. Really angry. Face flushed angry. “How am I supposed to react when I show up to check on you and find some woman feeling you up?”
“Oh, stop. She’s a doctor. She has to know if the limbs work. The—”
Margo’s eyes filled with tears, and her face quivered the way it had the day I’d left for boot camp. “Don’t you patronize me, Stefan Mendoza. Ever.”
I threw my hands up. Fighting was a losing cause. “I’m sorry.”
/>
She rushed out of the room, and the sound of bags rustling came from the kitchenette. After a few minutes, she returned with a foil-covered plate and thermos. She plopped the plate—surprisingly warm—onto my chest and slammed the thermos onto the wooden floor. She’d folded a crease into the tin foil and tucked plastic utensils inside. The salty, smoky aroma of bacon and what might have been biscuits leaked out.
“Breakfast,” she said with a shaky voice. She wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Just simple shit a dumb nobody from Emmett, Idaho, would make, not what a doctor would do.”
“Margo, I—”
But she didn’t wait for me. She didn’t offer an explanation for what was going on. She just left.
I rubbed my forehead—not quite the furnace it had been—and tore the tin foil open. Two fat, golden biscuits, crispy bacon strips, and fried eggs said hello to me. A small, plastic container held what looked like fruit slices in the center of the plate. It was a king’s feast, and it demanded immediate attention. I’d need to make a call once Margo had time to calm down. If I was lucky, that would be all I needed to do to make things right.
Unfortunately, my luck was usually in short supply.
Chapter 4
Despite feeling better, it was a tough night. I gathered more wood before the sun set and kept the fire burning when the dark settled. The heat was welcome now, and the golden light gave the cabin a homier, more comforting feeling as I puttered around, organizing and cleaning a bit more. Before shutting the generator down, I recharged my electronics. And through the night, as I rested on the armchair that I had imagined was my own throne in the great Bolan Empire, I tried to figure out what had set Margo off.
She’d left nothing but the plate of food and cold anger, now scrubbed clean and drying by the sink. No perfume, like Gillian and Dr. Jernigan, no data for me to digest like Chan, just puzzling behavior. Like Ichi.
Ichi, Chan, and Danny.
Could I risk sending a message to the team to let them know I was alive? There was a data drop point. Danny would know to check there on occasion, assuming he had survived the situation in D.C.
