Mason smoothed the lattice off, overtime dropping like a shroud. He tasted cinnamon and spat on the floor. He checked the other man — dead — and then went to look at Mohawk’s fallen sword.
The handle was standing up from the floor, the blade fallen right through. He could hear a soft hum from the weapon. Vibroblade, maybe. He didn’t touch it, thinking of the Tenko-Senshin in his holster. “Carter.”
“Yes, Mason.”
“We’re going to need a clean up crew down here.”
“They’re already on their way.”
“Cops?”
“Of course.”
“Can you—”
“You talk to the cops,” she said. “I’ll talk to the chief of police.”
“Thanks, Carter.” Mason walked back to the window, looking out. The steady stream of people on the sidewalk continued to walk past and over the woman’s body that had fallen on the street below. “I hate Chinatown.”
⚔ ⚛ ⚔
The cop was a short fat man who smelled of bad coffee and too much work. His body armor didn’t quite cover him, stomach pushing through between the chest and leg plates.
“So, citizen,” the cop said. “You were just minding your own business.”
“That’s not what I said,” said Mason. “I was trying to have a business meeting.”
“Right,” said the cop. “Minding your own business, like I said.”
Mason looked down at the man. “You make it sound like it’s… What’s that thing you guys do? That’s it,” he said, smacking one fist into his other palm. “Like it’s a crime. You do crime, don’t you? Fight it, I mean.”
“Look, pal—”
Mason held up a hand, stepping back from the smell that peeled away from the cop. He watched the police drone hover over the scene. Red and blue lights licked over the walls as it scanned, light lasing out in flashes of green to mark out things the tiny AI considered evidence. It had stopped over the grip of the sword sticking out of the ground.
The cop looked over his shoulder at the drone. “Got something to add to your statement? Maybe want to tell me about the sword?”
“No.” Mason sighed. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“What?” The cop stepped up to Mason, looking up into his face. Mason tried not to breathe. “What doesn’t have to be this way?”
“Am I free to go?”
“Are you..? No, you’re not free to go.” The cop took a step back. “What’s your rush?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Then I’m free to go.” Mason nodded at the man, then started towards the doorway to the restaurant. He stepped over the bodies on the floor. He paused by the Reed man.
The cop was a half step behind. “Hey, buddy—” He put a hand on Mason’s arm.
Mason stopped, looking down at the hand. The cop followed his gaze, then pulled his hand back like he’d been stung. “Are you putting me under arrest?”
“I’ve still got questions. Shit, wait a second.”
“What is it?”
“I got a call coming in.”
Mason nodded. “You’d best take that. It’s your boss.”
“My… What?”
“Your boss.” Mason shrugged. “I don’t know about you, but I usually answer when the boss calls.”
“Look, just… Shit.” The shorter man pointed at Mason, the armor of his gloves worn. Police budgets don’t stretch quite far enough, do they? “Don’t go anywhere.” The cop got a distant look as he took the call. Cheap uplink, probably. No multitasking upgrade.
Mason crouched by Reed’s body. “Carter?”
“Yes, Mason.”
“I take it that the chief of police is calling?” He reached for the dead man’s sunglasses.
“I hope so, Mason. I woke him up.”
“How’d he take it?” The sunglasses came free. Mason looked at them. A nice pair, but nothing special. Nothing you’d be testing out for the company.
“Not well.”
“Do I have anything to worry about?”
Carter barked a laugh. “You? You’ve got lots to worry about. There’s a couple rival syndicates caught up in this now. One of them’s got a dead agent. And you’ve managed to piss off a local gang.”
“I meant, from the cops.”
“Oh,” said Carter. “Them. No.”
“No?”
“No. The South Sun Tigers, though. Those guys…”
“I understand.” Mason sighed. “Look, what do you think of this?” He held up the sunglasses in front of his optics so Carter could take a scan.
“I…” Carter paused as the overlay mapped the sunglasses, a manufacturer and model number flicking up into the corner of his vision. “They’re sunglasses. Pretty expensive ones, but off the rack. Nothing custom.”
“Right.” Mason reached down to the dead man’s face, pulling it towards him. “Ah.”
“Ah?”
Under the body was a spread of red, too shiny to be blood. “That’s not blood.”
“No,” said Carter. “Then—”
“This guy isn’t dead.”
“It’s not a guy,” said Carter. “Kick it to thermal for a second.”
Mason nodded, his optics flashing into the softer blues and brighter reds of thermal. He looked around at the bodies around him, their bodies already cooling in death, then back down to Reed’s body.
Stone cold, except for a bright burst at the core, a rectangle of white heat against the cold blue of the body. “Is that..?”
“Yes,” said Carter. “Reed Interactive sent a robot to meet you.”
“It wasn’t a robot,” said Mason.
“You’re sure?”
“Play back the video, Carter. It wasn’t a robot.”
There was a pause. “You’re right. It wasn’t a robot. Say.”
“Yeah?”
“What’s not a robot, but looks like one? If you were into synthetic entertainment, what’s the next logical step?”
“Jesus, Carter. Is this some kind of sex bot?”
“You always think in straight lines, Mason. Just bring it back with you.”
“What about the cops?” Mason flicked his optics back, glancing over at the cop. The man’s face had turned red.
Carter giggled. “I’ll make another call.”
“No, it’s all good. Leave this one to me.”
“It’s always work, work, work with you, isn’t it?” Carter dropped the link with a click.
Mason turned back to the cop, who was standing like he was caught between running and standing still. “You done?”
The other man swallowed. “That was the chief of police.”
“I know,” said Mason. “Can I go now?”
“Well,” said the cop. “There’s a small—”
“You’re on the take.”
“I’m… What?”
“You’re on the take. From the South Sun Tigers.”
The other man’s eyes bulged. “Now just wait a goddamn minute—”
“No,” said Mason.
“No?”
“No. I won’t wait a minute. I won’t wait five. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to go deal with the Tigers.”
“I—”
“Yeah. See, you’re on the take, but they’re going to be upset with you. Letting me walk like this. Way I see it, you need to front foot that. Get in front of it,” said Mason, reaching down and grabbing the Reed body by the jacket lapels. “Kinda sucks. Have a good night.”
He walked out of the restaurant, dragging the body behind him. His feet took him back to the big Suzuki, and he linked to the bike, warming it up. He threw the body over the front near the handlebars, the arms and legs dangling down either side.
The bike hummed, waiting. Mason reached into his jacket pocket for the Treasurers, lighting one up. He hoped Reed wouldn’t come looking for their synthetic body before he had time to finish his cigarette.
CHAPTER TH
IRTEEN
Bernie looked over his glass at the two company men. The whisky was old and tired, but the price was right. “It’s legit.”
The one from Reed — what’s with the sunglasses inside? — snorted. “It’s hardly legit, Eckers. If it was legit, we wouldn’t be dealing with you.”
The Metatech suit tugged at his cuffs and looked over at Reed. “How you feeling?”
Reed frowned. “I feel fine.”
Bernie looked between them. “Great. You’re feeling fine. How do you feel about making some money?”
“Because,” said Metatech, “I saw you get shot.”
“What?” said Bernie. “I didn’t get shot.”
“That’s right,” said Reed, looking at Metatech. “It’s a neat trick.” He tapped the side of his nose.
Metatech sighed. “Fucking Reed.”
“Yes,” said Reed. “At least we don’t do so much shooting.”
“Seriously,” said Bernie. “What the fuck are you guys talking about?”
“It’s not your concern,” said Metatech. He leaned forward over the bar. “Who do I have to kill to get a drink around here?”
Bernie swallowed, then reached under the bar. His hand dropped down to the rack of glasses, past the shotgun strapped under the bar top.
“I wouldn’t,” said Metatech.
Bernie froze. “Wouldn’t what?”
“The shotgun,” said Metatech. “I just want a beer, anyway. Don’t need a glass. Don’t really want to shoot you either.”
Reed nodded. “Not until we know what this is about, anyway.”
Bernie straightened, then reached behind him into the fridge. It had a glass door, frosted over with old ice. “Whatever. It’s just a glass. There’s no shotgun.”
Metatech laughed then, some genuine mirth crinkling his eyes. “You don’t deal with us very often, do you Mr. Eckers?”
“You? Fuck no. First time I’ve seen you assholes.”
“Not us,” said Reed. “People like us.”
“Company men,” said Metatech.
“No,” said Bernie. “You’re all motherfuckers.”
Metatech slowly pulled his hand up from under the bar, placing a sidearm on the top. The metal made a dull clunk against the wooden top, just one more mark in the old brown surface. “Careful,” he said.
“No, really,” said Bernie. “I invite you down to my place—”
“The Hole,” said Reed.
“S’right,” said Bernie. “The Hole. Ain’t no other like it.”
Reed looked around the gloom, glancing at the stage. “That’s probably the truest thing you’ve told us today.”
“Like I said,” said Bernie. He looked at the Metatech sidearm on the bar top. He hadn’t seen anything quite like it before, the barrel looking too big for such a small weapon. He put two beers on the bar. “You guys need me to open those? They’re not twist-tops.”
Both company men shook their heads, grabbing a bottle each. Reed opened his with a twist of his wrist, and Metatech popped the top off with his thumbnail.
“Sure, ok,” said Bernie. “You don’t need an opener. Good. Fine. I invite you down to my place, my home, wanting to do some business, is all. And you come in here, company attitude, syndicate men, getting in my face.” He grabbed his glass from the counter and took a hit of the whisky.
Reed and Metatech looked at each other. Reed sipped from his beer, then said, “Your home? You live in this shit hole?”
Metatech was frowning. “You said you wanted to do business.”
“S’right,” said Bernie. “Just a little business. Got something.”
“What kind of something?” said Metatech. He hadn’t touched his beer.
“Syndicate something, if you know what I mean.”
“Apsel,” said Reed and Metatech together.
“What?”
Metatech leaned forward again, his hand lying over the top of the sidearm’s grip. He spoke low, almost soft. “You’re trying to sell us Apsel ‘something’.”
“What?” said Bernie. “Why you say that?”
Reed put his beer on the bar top between his hands, shifting the bottle back and forth, the sound a low grind. “Because they’re not here.”
“Maybe I don’t like Apsel as much as I like you guys,” said Bernie.
“We’re motherfuckers,” said Reed.
“All of us,” said Metatech. “One motherfucker’s much like another. It’s the money on the table that matters. You’re a fixer, Eckers. You care about the percentage.”
“Right,” said Bernie, “which brings me to the next point. The money.”
“No,” said Reed.
“No?”
“No, said Metatech. “We don’t talk about the money. We talk about the product first.”
“Can’t tell you about the product,” said Bernie. He leaned forward, looking between the two company men. Absolute, total motherfuckers. “But you can trust me. It’s good shit.”
“I don’t think I would trust you, Mr. Eckers,” said Reed. “Not in business. Not to serve me beer that’s not watered down—”
“Hey!” said Bernie. “It’s straight from the bottle!”
“—and definitely not with my life. If you can’t tell us what the product is, you should tell us where it’s from. What it’s worth.”
“Millions,” said Bernie.
“Millions,” said Metatech. “That’s a broad spectrum.”
“It’s the truth,” said Bernie. He held up his hands. “Ok, ok. You got me. It’s Apsel tech. Straight from one of their R&D heads.”
“Ah,” said Metatech. “Is a defection part of the deal?”
“Last time we got one of your cast-offs, the product was defective,” said Reed.
Bernie looked down at his belly, thinking of a tight young body pulling away from him in a back room. “It wasn’t defective. You just didn’t use it right.”
“And you say we’re the motherfuckers,” said Reed.
“A defection. Sure. It’s a part of the deal. I don’t care about that,” said Bernie. Fucking Haraway. “You take the brain with the box.”
“Box?” said Reed.
“Yeah,” said Bernie. “It’ll come in a big metal box. You can just take it out on the same forklift you bring my piles of money in with.”
“You seem pretty sure we’ll want to buy it,” said Metatech.
“Yeah,” said Bernie. He grinned at them.
“We’re not getting anywhere with this,” said Metatech. He picked up his weapon faster than Bernie could blink, pointing the barrel at Bernie’s forehead. “What’s it going to be, Eckers? Dead on the floor, or want to tell us why you’re trying to set us up?”
There was something red glowing at the bottom of the sidearm’s barrel. Bernie watched it like it was a snake. “I—”
“Come now,” said Reed. “Mr. Eckers. You know the rules of this game. We’re not going to give you money unless we know what’s in the box. We’re certainly not going to bid against each other without some foresight. It just doesn’t work that way.” He straightened his sunglasses, ignoring the weapon trained at Bernie’s head.
“I—” said Bernie.
“See,” said Metatech, “the problem is that we’ve already met with Apsel. Just a little earlier today.”
“You… What?”
“We,” said Metatech, nodding at Reed. “Met with Apsel.”
“You met with Apsel?” Bernie swallowed. Motherfucking Haraway. “What… What did they say?”
“They said not to buy the box,” said Reed. “They said it’d mean war.”
“War?” said Bernie. “There hasn’t been a syndicate war in—”
“We know,” said Metatech. “Near as we can work out, only an idiot would try and broker a deal at this level.”
Bernie’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times, then he licked his lips. He could feel sweat trickling down his back, his too-tight shirt sticking to him. “I’m not trying to…” He wav
ed his hands.
Reed stepped back from the bar, then kicked through the wooden front. Splinters and glass sprayed around Bernie’s legs. The man leaned forward, reached in and grabbed the shotgun. “No shotgun,” he said. “Think we should believe him on the money?”
Metatech hadn’t moved a millimeter. “No.”
Reed hefted the shotgun, cracking the breach then slapping it closed. He cranked the lever, a shell ejecting and spinning out the side. “Seems to be well maintained.”
“Yeah,” said Bernie. “Shit happens here sometimes.”
“Shit,” said Metatech, “is about to happen. Right here. Right now.”
“I swear!” said Bernie. “I’m not trying to rip you guys off!”
Reed glanced at Metatech, then back to Bernie. “No, I guess you’re not.” He brought the shotgun down across his knee, the weapon snapping in half at the breach. Metal and shells fell to the floor of the bar.
Bernie could feel a warm wetness in his pants. He was going to die here, and it was all that bitch Haraway’s fault. “Goddamn Haraway.”
Metatech leaned forward. “What did you say?”
“I—”
“Jennifer Haraway? Atomic Energy? Apsel Federate?” The Metatech man paused, looking at the beer in front of him. “I might even forgive you for trying to lace my drink. If Haraway came with the box…”
Bernie swallowed, opened his mouth to speak. No sound came out.
“What,” said Reed, “is in the box?”
“The rain,” said Bernie. “The rain’s in the box.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I love it when you bring me presents,” said Sasha. She was standing on the opposite side of the metal table from Mason, leaning over the Reed body.
“Yeah,” said Mason. He lifted up the Reed body’s arm, letting it fall back against the table. The knuckles were scraped and bloody. It’s not like it’s easy to carry a dead guy on a bike. Sue me. “It’s not really for you.”
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