Fin

by Larry Enright

  The slap of Dirk’s hand on Fin’s back was like the whack of a hammer. He doubled over.

  “Jeez, Fin. You look like shit. Come on. Let’s grab a table in the back where you can take a load off.”

  They helped Fin to a back table. A waiter came to take their orders.

  “I need a doctor,” Fin gasped.

  “You sure about that?” said the waiter.

  “You heard the man,” said Dirk. “He wants the doctor, and we’ll have a couple more shots.”

  “Suit yourself,” the waiter shrugged. “One triple depth charge, coming right up.” The waiter left.

  “I heard there was a Blue in town,” said Tomb.

  Reflexively, Fin pulled his hood tighter around his face.

  “Fin’s a real pal,” Dirk said.

  Tomb was unimpressed. “So what’s your story, Fin?”

  “I’m sick,” Fin gasped.

  “Ain’t we all? Sick of living and afraid of dying. What line of work you in?”

  “He’s a cop,” said Dirk.

  “A cop?”

  Dirk hushed Tomb. “Keep it down. Don’t worry. He’s good. Show him your badge, Fin.”

  Fin fumbled through his pockets until his hand touched something white-hot. He heard himself scream in agony, but neither Dirk nor Tomb reacted. What was the matter with them? Couldn’t they see he was in pain? Fin pulled out his ID, dropped it on the table, and stared at the mark the smoking brand had left on his palm.

  “You’re SIA?” Tomb said.

  “Yes,” Fin said. “No. I don’t know.”

  “Well, which is it?”

  Fin wasn’t sure which answer among the ones floating in the air before him had made it to his lips, so he shrugged.

  Their drinks came. Fin refused his, but Dirk insisted, forcing him to down the three shots of rancid booze and the Cy beer chaser.

  Fin’s stomach began to settle. The alcohol was waging war on the Creep, but like the Great War, it was one in which there could be no winner. “I’m the n-next generation S-stybernite,” he stuttered. “I mean Cy. That’s it. I’m a Cy. Yeah. I’m special. I’m unique. I’m an experimental prototype. I’m not a robot. No. Not me. The humans are testing my model for something.” He lost his train of thought trying to recall exactly what they were using him to test.

  “Your model?” Tomb spat. “Is that how they programmed you to think of us? Well, let me tell you something, pal. Just because they made me strong and stupid doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I’ve got brains, and I know what’s what.”

  “I meant no offense, Tomb.”

  “You’re worried you’ll offend me? Really? Do I look like I give a crap about how you feel?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You government lackeys make me sick.”

  Dirk shoved a large gray finger in Tomb’s chest. “Lighten up, Tomb. You’ve had one too many. He’s not a lackey. He’s my friend.”

  “You met him once on the train. He left you to rot in stir. Or did you forget that? He’s not your friend. For all you know, he’s one of them spies we’ve heard about.”

  “Shut up, or I’ll shut you up myself.”

  “Please,” said Fin. He tried to add, “Take me to the hospital,” but those words came out as meaningless gibberish.

  “Don’t worry,” said Dirk. “Tomb will mind his manners or I’ll mind them for him. Right, buddy?”

  Tomb shrugged. “That depends. Is your friend buying the next round? I’m already down one drink because of him.”

  Fin reached into his pocket for his money and dropped a pile of wiggling squirming snakes on the table. They slithered toward Tomb. Fin tried to brush them away. “Look out!” he cried.

  Tomb and Dirk just stared at Fin and the empty table between them.

  “I’m out of here,” Tomb said, starting to get up. “Good luck with your new best friend, Dirk.”

  “No, wait,” said Dirk. “I’ll buy the next round. It’s all good. Right, Fin?”

  Fin nodded. It was all good. He had killed the snakes. They were safe now.

  The next round came. Fin downed his in a single gulp, winced then coughed, the vile mixture clawing at his addled brain, but somehow dragging it out of its cell for a look at the sky. It was so blue. No, that was his hand.

  “The Man makes us better every time he comes out with a new color,” Tomb said. “At least that’s what they say. Are you even better than the Voms, Fin?”

  Fin replied, “Color doesn’t make anyone better, only different.”

  “See? Like I was saying,” said Dirk, “one of the good guys.”

  “It’ll take more than fancy words and a couple of drinks to convince me of that,” Tomb muttered.

  “Feeling any better?” Dirk asked Fin.

  “No,” Fin replied, leaning over to look more closely at Dirk’s mouth. The Gray’s lips had begun to swell. He resembled a fish Fin had seen a photo of once. Puff-something—he couldn’t remember the name.

  “What are you high on?” Dirk asked.

  Fin wanted so desperately to tell them that Book had given him an overdose, but his lips could only mutter nonsense after the one word, “Creep.”

  “That explains it. You definitely need another drink.”

  “No,” Fin protested, but Dirk forced it on him and made him down it.

  Lucidity seemed within Fin’s grasp, but once again he asked the wrong question. “Why were you reluctant to tell me about your financial difficulties at the bar, Dirk?”

  Dirk shrugged. “It’s not something we talk about, at least not in public.”

  “Why not?”

  “You honestly don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re a cop,” Tomb said.

  “Despite what you hear, cops don’t know everything.”

  “Then I’ll tell you," said Dirk. "It's because you never know who's listening. They’ve got spies everywhere."

  “What?”

  Dirk said, “If I told you that in Cytown you have to pay for police protection, what would you say?”

  “Our taxes pay for our protection.”

  “Not this kind.”

  “What are they protecting you from?”

  “From them, Fin, and they get pretty nasty when you fall behind.”

  “That’s extortion. It’s illegal. So Council has decreed.”

  “Around here we call it the cost of living.”

  Tomb added, “And it’s always going up.”

  Despite moving to a table in the back, they were still attracting the attention of some of the bar patrons. Fin tugged anxiously on his hood strings. His mind had reached a plateau of lucidity where it could look down upon the barroom, disconnected and dispassionate. He was fully aware that his body was out of control but he no longer cared. He was disconnected from all the pain, the guilt, and the squalor. His mind had crept away to that place where Cybernites went to escape the horror of their lives for a few hours. He finally understood what Creep was. Closing his eyes, he began to rock back and forth.

  “Are all the local police corrupt?” He sung the question to a melody from his Homecom playlist.

  “Not all,” Dirk replied.

  “What about Lieutenant Trask?”

  “He’s tough, but he’s all right. When he saw we were buddies, he reduced my bail so the wife could afford to get me out. Hear that, Tomb? One of the good guys.”

  Tomb just scowled.

  Fin said, “But you committed no crime.”

  “They made one up, Fin. That’s how it works when you don’t pay.”

  “Trask warned me not to interfere with the Death’s Door gang. Why would he do that?”

  Tomb’s attention had wandered, but it snapped back when he heard Fin’s question. “What’s that about the DDs?” he said.

  Fin grabbed his side. The pain had returned. It was excruciating. His plateau began to crumble beneath him. He latched onto Dirk as the floor below them disintegrated in red Pulser haze.

>   “You don’t look so good, Fin,” Dirk said. “How about I take you home?”

  “Wait,” said Tomb. “I want to hear this first. What about the DDs?”

  Fin was hanging by a finger, all but a single pebble of his safe place gone. Looking down into the crimson abyss that had opened beneath them, he said, “I went to the station to ask for Lieutenant Trask’s help.” His head began to spin as the abyss reached out to suck him downward. “He warned me not to interfere. I had to go there alone.” The Gray that Book had shot in the back reached up from the nothingness beneath them. Her body was glowing red. She was falling, crying out for help. Fin reached out to her and shouted, “Grab on!” But as their fingers touched, she dissolved. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to die, but the Creep would not let him do either.

  “Wait a minute,” said Tomb. “That was you? On the train earlier, that was you? The guy they tossed out onto the platform after Tork? That was you? You’re the reason they bugged out, aren’t you?”

  Fin admitted that he was.

  “Me and some buddies of mine were there to score. I was one of the lucky ones. I got mine before they shut it down, but my buddies went away empty handed. A lot of us did. I should break your bloody blue neck for that.”

  “Easy, Tomb,” said Dirk.

  “Easy, my ass. Your Blue buddy’s a traitor.”

  “Creep is a disease,” said Fin.

  “How would you know?” said Tomb. “Look at you. You’re a damn junkie like the rest of us, only you got yours and left the rest of us hanging out to dry.”

  Fin buried his face in his hands, but nothing could stop the visions of the Northend addicts pleading with him for help. His help was to give them money so they could buy more Creep and then die. This was his fault, all his fault.

  “Settle down, Tomb,” said Dirk. “Finish your drink.”

  “You stay out of this, Dirk. I’m telling you, your buddy here is a traitor. How much did they pay you to sell out your own people, Fin?”

  “I am no traitor,” Fin protested. “I was trying to help. Help me, please.”

  “Help? Do you have any idea what it’s like to slave day in and day out for the Man? Of course, you don’t. You’ve got a cushy job Downtown. You’re the Man’s little errand boy. But us, we’re out there risking our lives every day to keep their stinking city going. We break our backs to dig their ditches. We keep their precious shield running. We do what they tell us and what thanks do we get? We’re not allowed to talk to them without permission, can’t look them in the eyes, can’t go to the same stores or ride the same trains. We can’t even use the same toilet or drink the same water. They make us live like dogs. Worse. They give us crap food and crap booze to keep us quiet, and when we die they toss us in the trash to be recycled. We’re nothing to them. You think you’re so special, so smart? Wait till you’re on the shit end of the stick. Then you’ll see them for what they really are. You just wait.”

  “I am not blind to this, Tomb.” But Fin was blind. His world had become a swirling funnel of Creep-generated images that would not let go of his addled mind.

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” Tomb continued, “Look at you all high and mighty. I’ll bet you have a real nice apartment too, don’t you? Does Book make his deliveries to your front door? I’d put credits on it he does. And I’ll bet you can afford the good stuff, can’t you? Booze, too. That’s why you choked on this piss water they give us. You probably eat real food, too. Don’t you?”

  “No!” Fin cried out. “Human food is wasteful and inefficient. I eat the same Reconstitute as you.”

  Tomb turned to Dirk. “Is this some kind of joke, or was this guy born yesterday?”

  “I became aware one year, three months, sixteen days ago,” said Fin.

  There was a commotion at the bar. A path cleared and a group of Whites armed with clubs and knives stormed over to their table. Tork was leading them. “That’s him!” he bellowed. “He’s the one.”

  The music stopped. The bar became quiet.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” said Dirk.

  “Too late,” Tork sneered.

  “Back off, Tork.”

  Tork laughed. “Or what, you puny Drab? I don’t have to listen to you.”

  “But I am SIA,” said Fin, “and you have to listen to me.” He tried to stand up but fell back into his seat.

  Tork slapped his club against his palm. “You’re dead, cop.”

  Fin drew his Pulser and pointed it at the White’s head as he was raising his club to strike. “Drop your weapon. You are under arrest under Article something of the code, some code,” he said. “I cannot remember, but you are under arrest.”

  The mob laughed.

  “Fin, what are you doing?” said Dirk, grabbing him by the finger he was pointing at Tork.

  Fin stared dumbly at the Pulser that looked more like his index finger than a gun. A whistle shrieked. Was it coming from his Pulser or had he just whistled?

  An announcement came over the bar’s Lawspeaker instructing everyone to drop their weapons and put their hands over their heads. Tork and his band of Whites complied.

  Fin held them in place with his finger as a squad of local police waded through the crowd to the bar. The bartender pointed them to the back.

  Tomb grabbed Dirk’s arm. “It’s Trask. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Fin, come on,” Dirk said.

  “Just go,” Fin mumbled.

  In the confusion of the officers pushing through the crowd, Tomb and Dirk slipped out the back.

  “Well, well, well,” said Trask when he saw Tork. “If it isn’t 3004. I’ve been looking for you, you Pasty piece of shit.”

  “Get lost, Trask. This isn’t for you,” Tork snarled.

  “Even Cys have got rules, 3004. And you broke them.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, cop.”

  “I’m talking about that Drab you killed.”

  “What Drab?”

  Trask jammed his Commlink in Tork's face. “Gray-3903 Series-100. Says here he went by the name of Steel. A nice lady with some big-time pull called in the report, sent us film of you smashing in 3903’s skull, so we got assigned the case. Your Blue buddy here witnessed it.” Trask focused on Fin. “What’s with the finger? Are you drunk?”

  The dark veil lifted for a moment. Fin said, “He took a man’s life. That is murder.”

  “It’s a misdemeanor,” Trask corrected him. “Anything below Slimer isn’t murder. You should know that.”

  “Murder is murder.”

  “I’ll see he gets the max sentence: one month hard labor. OK? That should straighten him out.”

  “Is that the price of a man’s life?”

  “If you're that concerned, we’ll collect our fine, too.”

  “Your extortion money?”

  Trask scowled. “You’ve been hit in the head too hard. Your programming is all screwed up.” He turned to Tork. “But killing a Drab is still a crime, and it’ll cost you, 3004. I’m taking you in. Let’s go.”

  Tork snarled, “I work for Book. He pays good money for protection.”

  “Book? I doubt it. He doesn’t hire dumb asses like you.” Trask handed Tork a set of handcuffs. “Cuff yourself, Pasty.”

  “Screw you, cop.”

  “Really? I could recycle you for that kind of bad-chatter.” Trask looked down at his Commlink. “But it’s a waste of a charge and I just happen to have your kill code right here.” He touched his Commlink and it broadcast gibberish like a tape playing backward. Tork’s face went blank.

  “Now cuff yourself, asshole,” Trask ordered. This time, the White complied. When the cuffs were in place, Trask tapped his Commlink again. “You can wake up now, shit-for-brains.”

  As they hauled Tork away, he vowed to get even with Fin.

  Trask waved his Commlink at Tork’s companions. “Anyone else want to play? I’ve got all your codes right here. I’m going to count to ten and start broadcasting. Any of
you still in range will be dancing in a dumpster for the rest of the night.”

  Tork’s gang took off.

  Trask came over to Fin. “What’s the matter with you anyway? You look like death warmed over.”

  “Book,” Fin said. “Creep.”

  “You dosed up? After all you said to me, you dosed up? And here I thought you were different. You’re just another addict looking for his next fix.”

  “No. Book.”

  “I told you to stay out of that. What was Tork so hot about anyway?”

  “Those men attacked me,” Fin replied.

  “They’re not men. They’re Cys.” Trask slapped him hard across the face. “Come on. Snap out of it. Why was the big one after you?”

  “I stopped something . . .” Fin tried desperately to remember what. “Creep . . . train station . . . I stopped it.”

  “That was you? Shit.” Trask exhaled slowly. “You have no idea the shit storm you’ve kicked up. I told you to keep your nose out of this. Come on. We’re going back to the station.”

  Fin refused.

  “It’s for your own good.”

  “No.”

  “Fine. Hand over your weapon.”

  “What?”

  “I’m placing you under arrest.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Obstruction of justice, causing a catastrophe, inciting a riot. I’m sure we’ll figure out a few more back at the station.”

  “Help, please.”

  “What do you think I’m doing?” Trask held out his hand. “The gun. Now.”

  A bigger hand clamped down on Trask’s shoulder. It was Ben Clayborn’s. “Not so fast, Trask,” he said.

  “Clayborn, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m about to explain to a washout how things work at the SIA.”

  “Don’t tell me this one belongs to you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Too bad. He screwed up. I’m taking him in. It’s for his own good.”

  “Think again.”

  “You let your pet out of its cage and it shit in the wrong yard, Ben. I’ve got jurisdiction. Back off.”

  “No, you back off, Trask. I’ve got the paperwork right here on my Commlink. Blue was acting on SIA authority. He’s part of a joint taskforce.”

  “You’re kidding.”