“I am Fin. God be with you,” Fin bowed.
“A Godder, huh? Scan his tat,” Book said.
“We ID every Cy who buys from us,” the girl said. “That way we know what’s what. Right, Boss?”
“Shut up,” Book snapped.
“Sorry, Boss. I just thought . . .”
“Do I pay you to think?”
“No, Boss.”
“Get back to your post or you’ll be back to running bags in the bone yard.”
The girl left.
One of the guards, a Green, produced an ID scanner and ran it over Fin’s tattoo.
Fin said to the guard, “Are you aware that the possession of an unauthorized ID scanner is a crime punishable by immediate recycling? So Council has decreed.”
Book smiled through his tattooed teeth. “That’s only for Cys. This cigar costs more than the fine for a real man.”
“It’s not working right, Boss,” the guard said. “It’s coming up access restricted.”
“I had a feeling this one’s special. Scan him against the specials.”
The guard tried again. “He’s in there, all right, but I don’t get it. There’s no address coming up, no work info, nothing, just a name and daily authorization.”
“Give me that." Book grabbed the scanner and scowled at it. "This can’t be right.” He tossed it back to the guard. “When we get back, find the shit who sold this to you and kill him. Then get me another one that works.”
“Yes, Boss.”
Book turned to Fin. “So you work in the city, do you?”
Fin replied, “I do not have to answer your questions.”
“You do if you want to live.” He turned Fin’s head to one side. “Where’s your number?”
“I have no number.”
“Every Cy’s got a number, but not you. No number, no record. What’s with that, Blue boy?”
“You are somewhat of an enigma yourself, Mr. Book.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You have no registered identity and yet you, your men, and this train are able to pass through the shield unharmed.”
Book laughed. “Hey, boys. Guess what? We’re enigmas.”
They laughed, too.
The snake tattoo on Book’s lips coiled in a snarl. “There’s something funny about you, Blue boy. I don’t like funny.”
“I do not find you the least bit humorous.”
“What the hell are you?"
“I am unique. I am a prototype. As you said, I am special.”
“You’re a piece of shit, just like every other Cy. What are you doing here?”
“I came to purchase Creep.”
“Is that right?”
“I had the credits. Your men took them from me outside.”
“He had plenty, Boss,” one of the guards said.
“Roll up your sleeves,” said Book.
“I beg your pardon?” Fin replied.
Book drew a Pulser from his holster. “I’m not going to ask you again.”
Fin complied, but said, “Why do you carry a Pulser you cannot use, Mr. Book? Each one is individually manufactured and bio-encoded to its owner at the factory. The coding is stored in a secure database which cannot be hacked and which I doubt you are in.”
“You’re pretty smart for a Cy who has no job and no address.”
“I have been told that.”
Book glanced out the window. A Gray was shuffling off toward the exit with her purchase under her arm. Book pointed the Pulser at her. “So, I guess it won’t matter if I pull this trigger?”
“Nothing will happen,” Fin replied.
Book pulled the trigger. The air sizzled as the beam from his gun struck the Gray in the back. Her scream echoed down the tunnel and died in the darkness as the red Pulser haze spread outward from the point of impact and enveloped her. When the haze dissipated, no cleaning bots came to clear away the pile of gray dust that remained to mark her passing.
“Ashes to ashes. Isn’t that what your God says?” said Book. He put the gun away and grabbed Fin’s arms, examining them for auto-injector marks. “You’re not a Creeper. So what are you?”
A White came through the doorway from the second car, escorted by a Gray. “He’s SIA,” the Gray said. “This Pasty here says he knows him.”
Fin recognized the White as the one who had murdered the helpless Gray named Steel.
Book held his hand up. “What’s rule number one?” he said to the Gray.
“No customers in the vault without permission,” the Gray answered. “But Boss . . .”
Book wagged his finger. “Uh, uh, uh. What happens when you break the rules, Stag?”
“No, Boss, please. Not that. Not again.”
Book nodded to the other guards. Two of them grabbed Stag and another the White.
“On the rail,” Book said, drawing his knife.
Stag cried out for mercy, struggling against the guards who had forced his hand around the metal railing.
“You got two choices,” said Book, holding his knife to the Gray’s throat, “and one of them is just losing another finger.”
The Gray whimpered as the fight left him. The guards held his hand—already missing one finger—so it wouldn’t flinch. Stag closed his eyes and began to pray.
Book severed another of his fingers, threw it out the window, and told the guards to get the whining piece of Cy crap out of there, that he was bad for business. He then turned to the White. “What’s your story, Pasty?”
“I’m Tork,” the White replied.
Tork was big, but Book was bigger.
“I didn’t ask what your name was. Start talking, or you’re next.”
The White boasted about his encounter with Fin in the street, telling Book how he had killed a Gray for revenge, how he had single handedly subdued the Blue SIA agent. He handed over Fin’s Pulser, badge, and Commlink as proof.
“I’m impressed," Book said. "What’s your angle?”
“I want in,” Tork replied. “I want dealer rights in my Block.”
“What makes you think you’re good enough for the DDs?”
“I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll kill anything that stands in my way. Just point me in the right direction, Boss.”
Book pointed to Fin. “There you go. Put up or shut up.”
“But he’s a cop,” Tork protested. “You know what happens when you off a cop.”
“You’re not afraid of him, are you?”
The White shook his head. “No, Boss. I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Good.” Book held his knife out for the White to take. “Do him. Right now.”
Tork hesitated.
“I said do him!” Book shouted. “You want in? You do him right now.”
“But he’s a cop.”
Book sheathed his knife and said to one of the guards, “Scan this Pasty and get him out of here. I don’t want to see his ugly face in line for two weeks. And if you catch him second sourcing, kill him. Understand?”
“Two weeks?” Tork cried. “I can’t make it two weeks. I haven’t had a slam since yesterday.”
“You should have thought of that before,” Book replied.
Guards dragged Tork out onto the platform and pushed him toward the exit.
Book admired Fin’s Pulser. He pointed it at Fin, painting a target on his forehead with its laser sight. “Nice piece. SIA, huh? That explains a few things. I wonder if this one works, too.”
“I am not afraid of you,” said Fin.
“You should be.” Book pulled the trigger, but the weapon didn’t fire. “I guess this is your lucky day, cop. You’re not a Creeper. You’re not stupid. What are you really doing here?”
“What does it matter if you plan on murdering me?”
“Maybe I’m curious why the SIA is trespassing on my turf.”
“I came because what you are doing is wrong. You have to stop.”
“Name me one thing in this town that isn’t wrong an
d I’ll think about it.”
“Creep is a disease.”
“What and you’re the cure? Is that it? Where’s your backup?”
“The local police wouldn’t help.”
“That’s because I pay them too well.”
“But you do not own the SIA.”
“Really?”
“I will stop you, Mr. Book.”
“I don’t think so.”
The train phone rang. The banker answered it, listened, and then said, “Boss, Scout says there’s another train coming. We’ve got less than ten minutes before it hits the cutoff. We’ll be trapped if we don’t go now.”
“That’s not a scheduled run,” said Book. He held Fin’s defiant gaze. “You didn’t come alone, did you?”
“Apparently not,” Fin replied.
“You’ve been stalling this whole time. You were the bait in the trap. You’re one clever little shit, aren’t you?”
“And you are surprisingly smart for a human,” Fin replied.
“Shut it down,” Book said to the guards.
“But Boss,” one of them replied. “We’ve got all this product.”
“And it’ll go bad if we don't unload it today," the banker added.
“Screw it. I said shut it down. Now. We’re leaving.”
“What about the cop?”
Book removed the power pack from Fin’s Pulser and threw it out the window. He then gave Fin back his gun, badge, and Commlink. “You just cost me a fortune, cop. Get out.”
“You are not going to kill me?” said Fin.
“Once your friends out there find out from Tork that it was your fault we had to shut down early, they’ll do the job for me. And if I know them, they’ll take their time. But just in case . . .” Book jammed an auto-injector into Fin’s arm, then another, and another. “A little going-away present from me to you, cop.”
Book shoved Fin out the door. He stumbled about the platform as the Creep took hold. At first a pleasant warmth that crept up his arm to his shoulder, it quickly became a branding iron pressing hard against every polyclonic fiber in his body. The train whistle blew a warning signal. The gang members fired their guns in the air, their reports thudding against Fin’s skull like a jackhammer. The crowd panicked and pushed for the exit, carrying the hapless Blue with them. The train doors closed, the window hatches clanged shut, and Death’s Door left the station.
Chapter 5
Cys poured out onto the street, complaining, arguing, cursing, wondering why the DDs had left so abruptly. Something had gone wrong. They vaporized a Drab. They threw out a Pasty and shut down the store, drove them away without their fix. It wasn’t fair. They had the credits. How were they going to face the Man tomorrow? Whoever did this was going to pay.
Fin stumbled out of the tunnel. He was cold and shivering, burning up and sweating, choking on his own saliva and too parched to swallow. Sense was nonsense. Reason was insanity. The more he tried to stop the fall, the faster he fell. The Creep had taken him to the place he had longed to go, to the waterfall in the painting that hung on his wall, so powerful, so peaceful, so unreal. He was standing under it as it crashed on the rocks around him, but something wasn’t right. The water wasn’t the pure clean river of his painting. It was a thick viscous torrent of gray, white, yellow, and green. It clung to him like tar. It burned like fire. He tried to brush it off, to tear it off, but the rain. Always the rain. It filled his mouth and clogged his nose. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to get out from under it but a massive tattooed hand holding a giant auto-injector reached out from within the curtain of goo to stab him again and again.
Fin took out his Commlink to call for help. It melted in his hand. He couldn’t think, couldn’t see, couldn’t will his feet to carry him home. Every step was a struggle, every breath a final gasp before giving up his life to the dumpster god. He ran, but he was running in a dream in which there was no escape. Hundreds of grotesque, elongated Cybernites appeared out of the nightmare. They were coming for him. They wanted to kill him. He was cause of their troubles, their suffering, and this curse they called life. It was his fault and they were going to make him pay. Fin scurried into a side street like a tunnel rat fleeing the trappers.
There he fell into a wasteland where a moment before there had been trashcans and refuse. It was a place pure and untouched by man, and there was no rain. Thank God, at last, no rain. He had escaped, finally. He looked to the sky, to the real sky for the sun. No more Periculum shield, no more toxic clouds to blot it out. It was there and at last he saw it. It was as bright as he had imagined, and it was warm, so warm. It wrapped its gentle arms around him as a father would embrace his son, reassuring him that everything would be all right. "Father, thank you," he whispered. But the warm embrace became a cold grip and the grip began to tighten. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Father was angry. With him? But why? He had done nothing wrong. Yes, he had. He had failed. He had failed his father. He deserved to be punished. The sun began to fall from the sky. It split into many suns that became missiles of fire. They were coming to destroy him, to destroy everything, and he couldn’t stop them. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
Fin ran blindly around the corner and collided with a group of drunken Grays in front of Rosie’s Bar. They mistook him for one of their own and carried him along inside. Grays and Whites packed the place, unwinding after another long day of slaving for the Man. It was smoky, loud, and reeked of Reconstitute-laden sweat—every flavor, every spice, every grade, and Fin could smell every one of them. He was in the market again, going from stall to stall, fascinated by it all. He was happy. He was safe from the missiles, from his father’s anger. Then the bar lights, like torches, set his eyes on fire. He stumbled. The beast belching the thick smoke that filled the room had noticed him and was wrapping its scaly claws around his throat. He couldn’t breathe, again he couldn’t breathe. He pushed through the crowd. The Gray he had met coming home on the train the other day—the one he had seen locked up in jail, the one whose name was on the tip of the tongue he could no longer feel—was sitting on a stool at the bar. Fin broke free of the smoky beast and weaved over to him.
“Dirk,” he gasped from under his hood.
“Fin?” said Dirk. “Fin! How are you doing, pal?” The Gray’s hand flapped drunkenly at the smoke-laden air until coming to rest on Fin’s shoulder. It steadied them both. Dirk gestured to the Gray sitting next to him. “This is my partner in crime, Tomb. Tomb, this is Fin. He’s one of the good ones.”
Tomb tipped his glass.
“Crime?” Fin asked of the several iterations of Dirk floating in the air before him. He tried to focus on the one moving the least. “Is that why you were in jail?”
“No, that was something else. Never expected to see you here. Slumming it?”
Fin wanted to cry out for help, but said instead, as if the words had a mind of their own, “I am sorry I was unable to help you at the police station.”
“Don’t sweat it. It’s all good.”
“That’s not what I meant.” His brain screamed, “Help me!” but the words came out as, “I am glad they released you.”
“The wife bailed me out. I’ll be paying double for that later.” Dirk winked, but his knowing elbow jab missed its mark. He would have fallen off his stool had Tomb not caught him.
“Watch it there, big guy,” Tomb laughed.
Fin’s mouth was suddenly dry. He couldn’t swallow. He needed a drink. He grabbed the glass of liquor that the bartender was setting down in front of them and downed it in a single gulp. The vile substance etched away the thin scab that had grown over the sore in his mouth, burning its way through the hell in his throat. He was able to swallow again, but the swallows were mobs of angry Cys stabbing their way with pitchforks down into his churning stomach.
Tomb complained about Fin taking his drink. Dirk told him he’d buy the next round.
“Tough day at the office, bud?” said Dirk.
Fin couldn’t un
derstand why his brain was unable to make his lips beg for help. He wanted to tell them that Book had poisoned him with Creep, that his mind was trapped in its prison, that he was aware but incapacitated, but all he could say was, “Why were you arrested, Dirk?”
The Gray shrugged it off as he planted himself on his stool again. “I guess the Man didn’t like the way I was kissing his ass.”
“Not enough tongue, if you ask me,” Tomb muttered.
“You would know, ass kisser,” said Dirk.
“Brown lips.”
They laughed and toasted each other, downing their drinks in long swallows.
Fin’s brain finally connected with his tongue long enough for him to whisper, “Help me.”
“What’s that?” said Dirk.
And then the connection was gone again. As if he were some disembodied bystander, Fin heard himself saying, “Why were you arrested?” when he had meant to scream at the top of his lungs, “I’ve been poisoned! I need a doctor.”
“I’m behind in my payments,” Dirk replied, staring at his dismal prospects mired in the sludge at the bottom of his glass.
Fin remembered Gray-245, Series-100, the Cybernite who had been evicted last week, the one he and Mama had found in the train station dead from an overdose of Creep. What was his name? Billy, he remembered. That was his name. Billy. And he was dead. Somewhere among the misfiring synapses of his brain, Fin knew he would soon be dead, too, if he didn’t get help. “If it’s your rent payment, I can help. Help, please,” he forced the words out.
“Not those payments,” said Dirk. “The other ones.”
Fin wiped the purple and green sweat from his forehead. Why was it those colors? Why did it burn like acid on his hands? “What other ones?” he said, rubbing them over and over again on his pant legs.
Dirk became agitated and glanced nervously around the bar. Some of the Whites were staring at them. “Not now. OK?” he said. “We’re just here to blow off a little steam. Get yourself another drink. You’ll be fine.”
“I’m sick,” Fin said. He was sweating all over, burning up and chilled to the bone. He was dizzy and nauseous. So dizzy . . .
Dirk steadied him. “Nothing a good stiff one can’t cure,” he said.
Fin Page 9
