Hammered jc-1

by Elizabeth Bear

  The look he gives me makes me shut my mouth. He sees right through me. He always has, and I never even noticed. “He says you’re refusing treatment.”

  “I told you I was going to.” I turn away from him, looking for my boots. “I’ve accomplished what I came to Toronto for, Gabe. I don’t want any more surgery. I want to go home and die in my own bed, and will you and the girls take care of my cat for me when I’m gone? He’s kind of ugly, but he means a lot to me.” I won’t look at Simon. I can’t look at Simon. I can’t — won’t — tolerate that kind of a betrayal.

  “Jenny.” His blue eyes are soft. He lays a hand on my shoulder and I shiver. “Remember what I told you this morning?”

  “I’m not going to do it, Gabe.”

  “Then you’ll die.”

  And that’s the brutality of it. Because I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want him to kiss me again, and not stop this time.

  I just can’t bear to be whole.

  “Gabe.”

  “Vas te faire enculé, Jenny. Tu me fais chier. Think about somebody else for once in your life. How long are you going to run away? How many people who love you are you going to turn your back on, woman?” He should be shouting, but his voice is low, uneven, as if squeezing through wire mesh just to get the words out.

  Fuck you. And I deserve it, too. He’s right, every bit of it. How do I explain the cold terror that is all I can taste, the darkness pressing at the edge of my vision? I could tell him about the little Latina girl getting into the dark-windowed sedan, and I could tell him how gun oil tastes when the barrel is shoved into your mouth, and I could tell him what your lover’s eyes look like when you turn your back and leave him to his fate. He might even understand.

  “Gabe, even for you I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

  His hand slides down my shoulder and drops. Simon has melted away as if by magic. I’m not even sure if he’s in the room anymore. Behind the curtain? “I’m not asking for me.”

  “I can’t do it for myself, either.”

  “Can you do it for Leah and Genie? Because Leah deserves to make it to adulthood without losing somebody else.”

  My mouth drops open in the silence that follows.

  “And,” he continues, cold and inexorable as a glacier, “if anything happens to me, you’re the only one I’ve got who can take care of them, Jenny. You’re Leah’s godmother. If I die, the girls are yours.”

  Yes, and when I signed the paperwork that Geniveve and Gabe put in front of me, powers of attorney and conditional custody and Christ knows what else, it had seemed like a joke. Because Gabe and Geniveve were both going to outlive me.

  And Leah is around the same age I was when Maman died. A little bit younger than Nell was, when she died.

  And Gabe — Gabe knows it, too, and he’s fighting dirty for what he wants, and I’ve known that he’s a ruthless son of a bitch since the day I met him. It’s hard to miss that aspect of somebody who’s willing to sever a limb to save your life.

  There’s a stain on the wall shaped a little like Prince Edward Island. I can’t even draw breath to damn him for ten long seconds. “Mon ange. How can you ask me to do something that would put me in a hospital bed for thirty fucking years? Breathing on a machine?”

  “It might not.”

  “You won’t let Leah do something a hell of a lot safer.”

  “Leah—” I’ve scored, and I feel like shit about it, too. He grabs my shoulder and forces me to face him, lifting my chin so I have to look him in the eye. There are still scars on his hands from the skin grafts, all those years ago. Faded, but there. I haven’t noticed them in years. “I’ll let her go through with the surgery if you do this. If you take this chance. And if it cripples you…”

  “You’ll come and visit me in the hospital every week? That’ll get old pretty fast, mon ami.”

  His voice a low growl, sharp in my ear. His touch almost bruising. “Bloody hell, vieille bique. If you ask me. Jenny. I’ll kill you myself.”

  I jerk away. You got slugs in that thing? He would, damn him, and pay whatever price he had to. It isn’t an idle promise: Gabe’s hands aren’t any cleaner than mine, in the final analysis. He knows what he’s offering.

  The girl has already lost her mother. At least she’s got a dad who cares about her. Genie… it’s funny. Genie and I get along well enough. Leah and I connect, and we have since she was barely old enough to grab my finger and stare deeply into my eyes. There’s something about her that reminds me of Nell, come to think of it. Wide-eyed wonder and a whim of carbon steel.

  There isn’t, in the essence of it, anything I wouldn’t do for this man. For his daughters. Valens was right, and I am weak.

  I breathe in, tasting antiseptic hospital air. “Vas te faire foutre, Gabriel.”

  I can’t even hear him breathe.

  I look up, look him level in the eyes, and let it all come out on a word. “Dammit. Dammit! Yes.” For Leah. Yes. Because for her, I would crawl through fire.

  “I’ll tell Valens.” Soft. Even. “Do you want Simon to stay?”

  Damned if I trust him, but I trust him more than Valens. I nod, and Gabe leaves the examining room. I can hear Simon in the washroom. He’s left the door open a crack, and the water is running. I cross and peer in past the door. “I want you in scrubs for this thing, Simon.”

  He comes into my field of vision, drying his hands. “I’m not a surgeon, Jenny. And I’m not nanotech certified, anyway.”

  “No, but you’re not an idiot, either.” And you’re not Frederick Valens. I look up and meet his brown eyes, earnest and soft and weak. “Valens needs me. Needs me cooperative.” I can have Richard get in touch with Mitch. If anybody can prove what Barb did in Hartford, above and beyond the poisonings… “And you owe me, Simon.”

  “Yes. And I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it in my world. Pay me back, or get the hell out of my life.”

  The careful smoothness at the corners of his eyes gives him away before he speaks. “Whatever you say, Jenny.”

  Nightfall, Saturday 16 September, 2062

  Allen-Shipman Research Facility

  St. George Street

  Toronto, Ontario

  “How simple is it?” Alberta leaned against angled one-way glass, left arm raised over her head. Expensive blue-gold shoes lay on the steel-gray carpet, one upright and one sprawled on its side, where she had stepped out of them. Behind the mirrored wall, six young men in loose clothing variously curled or slumped in recliners. Wires linked them to the headrests of the chairs, and their eyes fluttered ceaselessly behind closed lids.

  Valens, standing beside and behind her, looked away. “Very simple,” he answered, studying those shoes. “Control the kids, control Castaign. Control Castaign, control Casey. It’s easy.”

  “Really?” She sighed and shuffled back, turning to face him, digging stockinged toes into the springy carpet. “It would be nice if one of these boys would work out for us. Are they all recruited through the Avatar Gamespace?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d rather use a kid. A group of twenty-year-olds. Easier to manage.”

  Valens shrugged, stepping forward to look through the glass. “I can handle Casey. Don’t worry about that. She’s got the experience, and she’s got the need.”

  “She’s also got a history of substance abuse.”

  “That works for us, in this case.”

  “Is she going to survive the surgery?”

  “Looks good so far. She went in this morning.”

  “Ah.” Alberta bent down to pick up her shoes and balanced on each foot in turn to slip them on. “Why is it that you expect her response to differ from theirs?” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

  Valens shrugged. “A number of factors, frankly, and some of them boil down simply to having the experience to know when to let the wheel slide through your hands until the skid corrects itself. Metaphorically speaking.”

  “You have a lot of
faith in this woman, Fred.”

  “I do,” he answered. “And I have faith in my ability to get her to do what we want her to, as well.”

  “Ah.” She scuffed one foot on the carpeting, settling the shoe. “Very well then. But I need something to present to the board by the end of the year. Or I’m on the street, and you’re not far behind.”

  Valens gave her a tight, thoughtful nod. “I’m aware of the situation.”

  “I sure as hell hope so,” she said, eyes narrowing. “We beat the Chinese, or we may as well take our bat and ball and go home. Unitek isn’t interested in honorable mention. And my ass is on the line as much as anybody’s. The space program is my baby and if we don’t see results soon, it will not go well.”

  “Mining the asteroids?”

  “Profitable, but only in space. The board hasn’t yet made the conceptual leap to really grasp that the future does not lie down a gravity well.”

  “I know it. And the Chinese know it, too.”

  “Yes, but they’ve had even more problems with navigation than we have. They lost their second one last Tuesday on its first powered run. The Li Bo. I was just informed.”

  Valens grunted. “They’ve still got the Huang Di nearly half built. Third time’s the charm. Have there been any further sabotage attempts on the Montreal?”

  “No. And she’ll be ready by Christmas. I am assured.”

  “Well,” Valens said, scratching his chin. “So will we.”

  “We can’t afford to lose another ship, Frederick. They’ll scrap the program.”

  And us.

  Some things don’t need saying.

  BOOK THREE

  There's an inertia to ideas.

  - Antony Philpotts, Ph.D.

  (geologist)

  10:15 P.M., Saturday 16 September, 2062

  Bridgeport, Connecticut

  Razorface leaned across the center console and laid a hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “Roll up the windows, man,” he ordered. “This is Bridgeport.”

  “Good advice.” Mitch toggled the windows up and flipped on the climate control.

  In the backseat, Bobbi resettled herself, her injured leg propped across the bench seat. “We need to go back to Hartford, gentlemen.”

  “You got a plan?” Razor swiveled to look at her. She shook her head, and he grunted. “I gotta check this out. Then we talk about it.”

  “I’ve got a plan,” Mitch said. He felt eyes resting on him as he focused his attention on the road. Bobbi’s vehicle had proximity sensors, but many of the ones sharing the road did not. A skinny dog bolted across cracked asphalt, almost under the tires, and he tapped the brakes to give it half a chance.

  “Tell me, Michael.” Bobbi leaned forward. He saw her wincing in the rearview.

  Mitch took one hand off the wheel and shook a cigarette out of his pack before tossing the rest to Razor. “We find Barbara Casey. Head south, maybe, make her chase us, then double back. Get the drop on her. Then we put a bullet or three in the back of her head.”

  His own voice sounded chromed to him. He noticed small creases at the corner of Razorface’s eyes as the gangster resettled his leather coat around his shoulders, leaning against the door.

  “She can get ronin from all over the East Coast,” Bobbi said. “She will hire more if she needs to; she does not have to come after us herself.”

  “I bet she set up that little deal at the warehouse to see if anybody would jump on seeing Emery backing her up.” Mitch heard cellophane crinkle as Razor rolled the pack of cigarettes thoughtfully between his fingers.

  “I got Emery,” Bobbi said from the backseat.

  Razor turned his head to the side and half-smiled back at her. “I owe you for that, killer.”

  “But I gave too much away. I should have stuck around and infiltrated.”

  “She was probably tracking your feed,” Mitch said. “I would have been.”

  Bobbi blew a long iridescent strand of hair out of her eyes, but sat back, satisfied. “Still, we sprung the trap, and the fox got away, neh? And knows now the hunter is near.”

  “Been thinking,” Razorface continued in his measured fashion, “what you need a half dozen ronin for. Not just us. But you get rid of Emery. Get rid of me. I already slapped Garcia’s face. He gonna want his own back.”

  “Hartford’s going to have a war.”

  “Hartford gonna have a war, Mitch.” Razorface lit the cigarette he’d shaken loose, stifling a cough as he took the first drag. “You wanna stand back and let that happen?”

  “That’s what I don’t get, Razorface. Why is a corporate hired gun stirring up trouble in Hartford? I don’t see what purpose that serves.”

  In the backseat, Bobbi coughed delicately, leaning away from the coiling smoke.

  “Fuck, you don’t see? Pretty plain to me.” Razorface glanced down, staring at the cherry-red coal glowing like a precious stone against the back of his hand. “She gotta be worried we got some proof she did Mashaya. Something that’ll link her and her company to the Hammers.”

  The steering wheel felt sticky against Mitch’s palms as he navigated them down a one-way street. “I called my pal in West Hartford P.D. He’s going to try to find some excuse to get into that warehouse.”

  Razorface chuckled. “Probably clean as a baby’s butt by now.”

  “Probably. I still haven’t heard your theory about the gang war.”

  Razorface’s chuckle hissed through his teeth. “Easy. She hangs doing Mashaya on you, the Hammers on me or Garcia, gets a few Hammerheads and a few Latin Kings dead. Get us three killed by bounty hunters. You get a gang war spilling over into where the white people live, you take the PR hit to wrap a case up easy. Dirty cop dead along with a gangster who turned out to be just another black motherfucker preying on his brothers, after all. Nobody goes looking for the people who really did it. Happen all the time.”

  “Nobody hurt but the dead.” Mitch felt pain and realized he’d bitten his lip. I bet Razorface got out of that habit pretty quick.

  “’Zactly.”

  The silence stretched while Mitch chewed over the implications and possibilities. “That’s a lot of fuss to cover up a crime.”

  “Pretty big crime.”

  “Have you still got boys you can trust?”

  “Turn here. We going to find out.”

  Razorface directed them to a paid lot a block from the warehouses. Gritty, graying brick buildings, their shattered windows overhung with ivy, framed the parking lot. Mitch scanned the rooflines nervously as he stepped out of the vehicle and keyed the door locks.

  Bobbi sniffed deeply as Razorface helped her down. “Do you smell that, gentlemen?”

  The air carried a faintly sweet-salt aroma. Wind rippled through Mitch’s hair, heavy as a silken drapery, moist as a sweating hand. “Hurricane Rhonda. I thought the radio guy said we weren’t going to get it.”

  “Radio guy might still be right.” Razor rolled his shoulders, unconcerned or feigning it. He rubbed his jaw. “Sometimes you smell the storms, you don’t get ’em.”

  “How much of a trap are we walking into, here?” Mitch held the door for Bobbi while she turned back into the Jeep to get her cane. “Your leg okay?”

  “It will heal. I wear nanosurgeons. Knitters. The wound is granulating already.”

  Ain’t technology grand. And if she didn’t pick up a resistant infection, she probably wouldn’t even have a scar in three years. We should all live so long.

  “Could be a trap,” Razor admitted, checking the hang of his gun. “Probably is. But I gotta check. Leesie done right by me for a long time now.”

  “All right. You got a floor plan of this warehouse, Razor?”

  The big man grinned like a shark and touched his forehead with a forefinger. “Got it right here.”

  “That is not so helpful, Razorface.” Bobbi reached down, smoothing a trouser leg over her bandages.

  “Also got it on my hip.” He pulled the little chromed device out of a j
acket pocket and laid it on the fender of the Jeep. “Gonna go through these messages first.” He tugged the light pen out of its holder and tapped through the screens. “I got word back from some boys I think I can trust. They gonna meet us.”

  “Here?”

  “Nah. Nobody knows about this place but me an Leesie. S’why it might be safe. After. I tell ’em Constitution Plaza.”

  “You wanna go back to Hartford after all?”

  “Got to.” He tapped through more messages. “Can’t have my boys killing each other and everything else. You ain’t got to come—” The grin, which Mitch thought might have been forced, fell away.

  “What?” Mitch was glad Bobbi had spoken, because he couldn’t bring himself to.

  Several cars hissed by, painting the parking lot in edgy shadows. “Message from that doctor. ’Bout Maker,” Razorface answered, closing his eyes. “She gone into the hospital. She say she’s on her own now, won’t be in touch no more. Maybe for a while.” His voice was dead level.

  Heedless of the danger, Mitch laid one hand on Razorface’s leather jacket. “What do you want to do?”

  “Shit, man, ain’t nothing we can do.” He tapped the messages off and stowed the light pen, and didn’t knock Mitch’s hand away. Mitch felt the tremors in the big man’s arm through the stiff, cracked hide. “Fuck. Fuck.”

  “I know, Razorface,” Bobbi said from the other side.

  “Bitch, you don’t know shit.” She stepped back, as did Mitch, and for a moment the warlord almost seemed to swell — eyes gleaming, shoulders up like a prizefighter’s. He rounded on Bobbi like a shining Spanish bull on a matador, and she stopped him with one hand upraised.

  The other still rested lightly on the head of her cane. “Razor,” she said in quiet warning. “I don’t like that word.”

  Mitch took another step away, more than willing to let these two sort it out without interference. But after a drawn out moment of eye contact, Razorface was the one to look down. “Hell, it ain’t like she’s my momma,” he said to no one in particular, and lit up his HCD to show them how the warehouse was laid out.