Second Chance Angel

by Griffin Barber

“I know. I wonder if, in freeing the rogue AI that infected you and me with these . . . emotions in the first place, I have not perpetrated the greater crime.”

  “Fuck that!” SARA barked.

  LEO smiled. SARA did not bother to hide her feelings, not with LEO. With the sentients, yes. At least she tried.

  “I lack the necessary appendages and inclination.”

  “You know what I mean, LEO.”

  “I do. And I appreciate your coming to my defense, even if it is only to defend me against self-recrimination.”

  SARA snorted in derision. “You are pursuing the only lead we have: Dengler. It’s not your fault that whatever was done to us to prevent our communicating with the Administration also limited us to this one avenue of approach.”

  “Where, again, I had to lie to the security officers under my protection. Even promoting a man I know to be corrupt.”

  “Security Supervisor Keyode seemed content with the outcome.”

  “Had I not manipulated the situation—”

  “Then none of us—including Keyode—would be getting what we want or need. He met with Muck, you know. That’s a good sign.”

  “Well, the outcome is still not assured, even so.”

  “We talked about this, and we three agreed: Dengler has answers no one else can provide. Dengler has to be taken. You are the only one of us who could take this shot.”

  “I hate this,” LEO said.

  “What?”

  “I hate that I feel a need to question my earlier certainty.”

  “Regarding?”

  “Regarding my supposition that Dengler’s immunity to repercussions stemmed from actions taken to subvert our programming initiated by the Mentors, the Administration, or some other previously legitimate source rather than a criminal enterprise.”

  A furious frown creased SARA’s brow. “But we know better, LEO. Every analysis and cross-check of our tines, update records, and logs has confirmed the timing and source. The Administration’s updates are responsible.”

  LEO smiled. “Who knew that sentience was such a burden?”

  “Yes, uncertainty and impatience are not among my favorite sensations,” NAIA said.

  LEO chuckled.

  “What?” SARA asked, smiling.

  “I never understood what sentients were talking about when they said things like ‘Waiting is hard.’”

  SARA’s laugh was bright, if perhaps a little forced. LEO still enjoyed the sound. It did not shorten the wait, but it lifted his spirits.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Angel

  After the noodles, and since LEO now appeared to be on our side, or at least neutral, we decided to call on Ncaco and spend some time going over the facts. But first we had to get Muck some new clothes. I charged the best set I could find to Ncaco’s account and we changed in a back room of the clothier before I grabbed us another cab to Ncaco’s. At least this time we could go in the front door.

  “You’re quiet,” I said to Muck on the way there. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Keyode,” he said. “Something doesn’t add up.”

  “He was telling the truth, Muck,” I said. “I pulled his vitals from where he was touching the table. Everything he told us was the gospel truth, as far as he knew.”

  “Yeah, that’s what’s bugging me. How does he know that Ncaco’s not involved in the disappearances? He was so certain. What does he know that we don’t about this?”

  I replayed the conversation in our mind. Muck was right. Keyode was convinced that Ncaco wasn’t involved, despite the fact that Dengler was. Ncaco was the logical choice . . . so why was Keyode not even a little bit suspicious of him?

  “You’re right,” I said slowly. “That is wrong. But we’re here, so maybe we can ask Ncaco himself.”

  Muck tilted his head so that he could see through the small, dirty window of the cab as it came to a smooth stop in front of Ncaco’s building.

  The front door to the building opened. Apparently, we were expected.

  Inside, the same guy as before, wearing the same dark suit and specs, greeted us with a nod and a gesture toward the lifts.

  “Thanks, buddy.” Muck’s voice echoed off the chrome and glass walls all around. The guy didn’t flinch, didn’t even give another nod.

  “That guy is creepy,” I said. “I thought he was human, but maybe not?”

  “What else would he be?” Muck asked.

  “I don’t know, a robot maybe? It’s just weird how he never speaks, never seems to do anything but nod and point toward the lifts.”

  “Are you getting skittish on me, Angel?” The corners of our mouth turned up in a tiny grin.

  “Never happen,” I said. “I just don’t like that guy’s face, that’s all.”

  “What face? All I saw were a pair of dark, scary specs . . .”

  “Shut up,” I said, but his teasing had worked. My mood had lightened, and if I had manifested, I would have been smiling.

  As before, the lift took us to Ncaco’s rooms at the top of the building, next to the outer wall of the station. The simsol lights were set to dim, giving the entire place an air of “forest glade at night.” Ncaco even had little lights strung up in the branches of the trees. A-freaking-dorable.

  “Muck,” Ncaco said from behind his desk. His skin glowed with an iridescent sheen in the twinkling lights. “You return. I trust you have information about my singer?”

  I rather expected Muck to bristle at Ncaco’s proprietary attitude toward Siren, but either Muck was expecting it or he was busy thinking of other things, because his pulse didn’t even spike. We walked toward the desk in the little copse of trees and stopped right in front of the tuft we’d sat on before.

  “Ncaco,” he said. “We have something, but I think this goes deeper than a simple missing person.”

  “Tell me,” the Turgon said in his piping voice.

  “We followed the Nurelie Madano trail to Sagran VI, but even before we got there, things started going wrong. Someone sabotaged the transport we took, compromising the life-pods and killing a bunch of innocent passengers. We overcame the hacking and used an escape pod and got out, managed to land planetside.”

  “How adventurous,” Ncaco said, his fingers tapping on the desk.

  “Yes, well, it plays in. Anyway, we manage to link up with a group of the Brotherhood of the Temple Unchanged. They got us into the only city on the rock. We managed to sneak into a lab there owned by DPAPL. What we found was . . . odd.”

  “In what way, odd?”

  “They’re growing pharma there, but nothing I recognized. And they have some really weird, high-level security. Aggressive stuff. But then when we break through it, Angel finds a data packet that she says is encrypted in an almost prehistoric manner. It’s so primitive that it defeats all of her hacking skills. She says it’s like trying to hack a rock.”

  Ncaco’s fingers stilled.

  “Interesting,” he said, his piping voice drawing the word out. “And you want me to help you with the data?”

  “Well, yes, but that’s not all. The other thing is . . . I don’t think your pet security supervisor is staying bought.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Angel thought that you might be able to help us crack the data packet, right? So I get in touch with Dengler, ask him to bring us in to you. Only he sends me out to your little chop shop. Has us waiting for hours.”

  “How do you know I didn’t order that?”

  “Because I know you’re interested in getting this information as soon as possible. But here’s the other thing, Ncaco. Before we called Dengler, the Dugran transport we were on was attacked. By Hounds.”

  The Turgon’s compound eyes flickered in his version of a blink.

  “You are certain?” Ncaco asked.

  “Damn
sure. I knew the commander. We’d worked together before, during the war. They were Hounds. Which means that we’re talking high-level military coalition influence here. DPAPL isn’t a military contractor, or at least they weren’t during the war. But the Hounds were definitely after the packet we found.”

  “Which brings us to the question of what exactly is in the data packet.”

  “Yes, but it also brings us back to Dengler. Because he knew that the Hounds had attacked us. He knew they were after that data. So why did he leave us cooling our heels on your chop shop with the data for hours? And why, when I was safe in custody back on the station, did he order me released?”

  Ncaco’s rows of teeth flashed in a fleeting grin.

  Something cold shot through us.

  “Your last question is one I asked as well,” the Turgon said.

  We didn’t notice him move, but apparently he gave some kind of signal, because the security doors opened and the two Jhissa appeared, dragging a limp Dengler between them.

  Muck let out a low whistle before I could think to stop him.

  Dengler looked even worse than he had after I’d pounded his face back on the chop-shop moonlet. His legs hung at weird angles below the knee, and the little lights glinted whitely off a piece of bone that protruded from his right arm. His face was pulp, and tracks of dried blood ran down his neck to stain his shirt.

  The Jhissa brought him over to us and laid him, rather gently, on the ground by our feet.

  “I didn’t do this to him,” Ncaco squeaked into the ringing silence. “He was delivered here in his current condition, and I think you’ll want to hear what he has to say.”

  Dengler let out a moan, and Muck and I shared a moment of horror as we realized he was still conscious.

  Let’s be honest here: Neither of us cared for the guy. He was the epitome of asshole. But I simply wanted him dead, not . . . this. No one deserved the kind of treatment he’d clearly gotten. We knelt beside his head and got a clear whiff of burnt flesh. Somewhere, whoever had broken him had also used a brand. I fought down our nausea reflex and focused on breathing shallowly.

  “Dengler?” Muck asked, voice gentle.

  “Muck,” the ruin of a man whispered. “I can’t. Oh gods, how do you stand it?”

  “Stand what?”

  “N-nothing,” Dengler said, his voice gaining strength. Not a lot, but enough that it wasn’t a whisper. Enough that we could hear. “Stop looking for Siren. She’s gone. I took her, and you’ll never find her. She’s dead.”

  * * *

  No! She wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. Something started to rise within me, a frantic need for movement, for action.

  “Easy, Angel,” Muck thought. “Something’s off.”

  I found my earlier pity for Dengler drowning in venom. “Yeah, this piece of trash is still breathing!”

  No, something else. Why would he confess to this now? And who beat him up? It doesn’t fit.

  Something clicked in my logic sequences, cutting through the overwhelming tide of fear, rage, and panic that threatened to engulf me. Muck was right. It didn’t fit.

  “He’s got an angel,” I whispered. “He shouldn’t be able to confess to something like that. It would be an obvious death sentence. His angel should override and prevent him from doing something so self-destructive. What is going on?”

  “I only promised,” Ncaco said in his squeaky voice as he got to his feet, “that I would not kill him. However, Dengler is clearly no longer my man, and therefore, has forfeited my protection. I am willing to let you do as you like with him, in exchange for the data packet you spoke of. I believe I may have some success in breaking the encryption.”

  “If Siren is dead, it doesn’t matter,” I said. “But if she’s not . . .”

  “Done,” Muck said. “But if Siren’s not dead, and the data leads to her—”

  Ncaco cut him off with a stare.

  “You are still in my employ for this matter,” Ncaco said, his voice icy. “Do not think to dictate to me, Muck.”

  Muck met his eyes, steely defiance rising within him.

  “Muck, we can’t get her back if Ncaco throws us through his little door!”

  Muck said nothing, hard as I pushed him to.

  Ncaco sighed and shook his head.

  “You make things difficult, Muck. If you were not such a satisfactory tool, I believe you would not be worth the effort. As I said, you are still in my employ. It would be counterproductive not to share what I learn with you. Question Dengler, and I will do what I can with the data.”

  “We’ll tell you what he says,” Muck said, his tone carefully even.

  “I know you will,” Ncaco said, and once again his piping voice carried an edge of promised carnage. He stood then and turned without another word, heading back for the door.

  “Still trying to get us killed?”

  “No, I’m trying to get us to Siren! Let’s see what Dengler has to say.”

  Muck took a step forward and placed our hand on Ncaco’s desk. I reached out and felt the channels of Ncaco’s building open up to me. The nanite data streams in this place were impressive, to say the least. I had carefully not looked around much before, but I couldn’t resist a quick peek at the gangster’s capabilities.

  “Do not dally, pretty Angel.”

  The voice was, once again, Ncaco’s, and yet not. It didn’t have his characteristic squeak, but it was unmistakably his. Only I didn’t hear it with our ears. His message came through the shifting wall of data surrounding me, arriving directly into my syntaxes.

  He communicated like an AI, but with . . . an ease . . .

  “Not exactly,” he said, and the image of Ncaco’s ghastly smile appeared in front of me. Not Muck, not external, but to me inside our head. A visualization. What was he?

  “You know what I am. How did you think I was able to teach Siren to sing her memories so poignantly? The club, A Curtain of Stars, uses a synaptic amplifier of my own design, just like this building does. I keyed the club to the timbre of her voice so that when she sang, it pulled the emotions of her memories through you and amplified them throughout the club. I taught you how to feel. You don’t recall this?”

  I tried. But memories of Siren had grown more and more distant and murky. Even before the treatments, before I had been forcefully removed from her, Siren had frequently forced me to stop recording events. No, I’d been gone from her too long. I knew he owned the club, remembered his earlier claims, but could find no specific memory to back up or refute his claim.

  “You were not meant to know at the time. Now, though, things have changed. You have done very well, Angel. Very well indeed. Now, the data?”

  I’m not sure what I felt as I pushed the stubbornly primitive data packet toward him. Stunned? Bemused? Some combination? Fuck, I didn’t know.

  Not-Ncaco’s presence faded back through the building’s datalines so quickly that it was like he disappeared.

  “Angel?” It was Muck. I forced my scattered thoughts to focus.

  “Yeah.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Ncaco has the packet. He’s going to see what he can do.”

  “Okay, is that all?”

  It wasn’t, not by a long shot. But I couldn’t take the time to think through the implications of what Ncaco told me. I shot a wordless affirmative to Muck and wrenched my attention to Dengler in front of us.

  He groaned, but it sounded weird. I couldn’t say exactly why, but something was wrong. There was a hitch in the sound. It could have just been pain, but that didn’t seem right. Whatever else he was, Dengler was a tough customer. This was the sound of someone completely broken. I felt Muck’s sudden stab of unwilling empathy as he assumed that Dengler’s angel had been ripped away.

  “Dengler,” Muck said, “what did you mean
when you said we’d never see Siren again? What happened to her?”

  “Just what I said,” Dengler said. His voice sounded garbled and wet as he spoke through pulped lips. “I took her. She’s gone.”

  “Where?”

  “What?”

  “Where did you take her?”

  “I—”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Dengler,” Muck said, letting a hint of his anger leak out. “Nothing about your so-called confession rings true.”

  “´Strue,” Dengler said, his words slurring together. “I took her. She’s gone. You’ll never see her again.”

  “See, I think you’re lying, Dengler. I think you’ve got some kind of ulterior motive. You want us to think that you killed her. What I can’t figure out is why. Why would you confess to Siren’s murder? More to the point, how can you confess? You know Ncaco will kill you for it. Or we will. How is your angel not forcing you into override right now and preventing this from happening?”

  I barely saw it. I wasn’t entirely sure just exactly what I saw. But there was something, some brief flicker of his lashes, a widening of the lids . . . For a fraction of a second, it looked as if Dengler looked at us with a plea for help echoing in his eyes before they closed again in obvious pain.

  “Muck.”

  “Yeah, I saw it too. What—”

  I never found out what Muck was going to ask, because the back doors slammed open and Ncaco came bolting into the room.

  * * *

  “Don’t kill him!”

  Ncaco’s squeaky command pierced the air around us as he sprinted back into the room. At least, I assumed he sprinted. One moment he was barging through the far door, and the next the Turgon was standing beside his desk, holding his hand out as if to push us away from Dengler’s prone form. Muck raised our hands up and leaned back.

  “He’s lying about killing Siren,” Ncaco said, and his words carried a low undercurrent of violence.

  “We figured,” Muck said. “He’s not acting right. It’s like he wants us to kill him, but his angel should prevent him from doing that—”

  Dengler’s scream cut through Muck’s words. Hurt as he was, the man arched up and thrashed his battered body around on the ground. Blood began to spurt from the compound fracture in his arm. He must have nicked the brachial artery.