“I certainly hope so,” said Mason. He looked back in through the skylight, standing up. The rain slicked and ran down the back of his armor, hissing and spitting on the tiles. “I didn’t want to get dressed up for nothing.”
“You want Harry?”
“Not yet,” said Mason. “Not… No. Let’s get the link up though.” He cycled the request through, and Harry came online, his face — what used to be his face — stitching itself in green in the top left corner of his vision. “Harry. What’s up?”
“It’s cold up here, Mason,” said Harry. “It’s really fucking cold. I mean, fuck it’s cold, ok?”
“Yeah,” said Mason. “It’s raining down here. How’s the weather inside, Carter?”
“It’s good,” said Carter. “I got the air conditioning at 21.”
“Fuck you both,” said Harry. “This better be worth it.”
“I promise,” said Mason. “Before the night’s done, you’ll get to shoot someone.”
“That’s all I care about,” said Harry. “Am I cleared to drop?”
“No,” said Mason. “That’s what I’m calling about. You got the map?”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “That’s a lot of assholes down where you are. Who’s Gene Kelly?”
“Look it up,” said Mason. “Can you handle a force of that size?”
“Is the Pope still a God-fearing Catholic?” Harry coughed. “Assuming I don’t ice up, I’ll be fine.”
“Metatech’s out there. They won’t be using pop guns.” Carter made the MT icons flare briefly. “Those ones.”
“I see ‘em. Do I sound worried?”
“You sound cold,” she said. “Do you need a blanket?”
“I—” said Harry. “I get this shit from my own handler, Carter. I don’t need it from you too.”
“Carter,” said Mason.
“Yes, Mason?”
“Be nice to Harry.”
“Why?”
Mason cocked locked the subs against his belt, then racked the rifle along his back. “Because I’m pretty sure he’s going to save my life tonight.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bernie paced along the floor, looking over at Haraway again. The rain hissed on the roof above them, the sound soft and muted against the tiles. Thank Christ it’s not a steel roof. It’d be loud, and it rained a lot in Seattle. That shit’d get old fast.
“Want a drink?” he asked Haraway.
She looked over at him, looking like he’d jerked her away from something going on in that pretty head of hers. “What?”
“A drink,” said Bernie. He walked behind the bar, reaching for a bottle of something. “A little southern hospitality.” He waved the bottle.
“Sure,” she said. “Fine.”
Bernie started to pour, glancing back over at her. No mistake, but those syndicate bitches were fine. A splash of the liquor ran over the side of the glass, and he looked back down to the bottle. “Here.” He held a glass out to her.
She walked over to the bar. “Thanks,” she said.
He nodded at her, looking at her breasts. “No problem.”
“Mr. Eckers,” she said, not drinking from her glass. She nodded at the hole punched through the wood of his bar. “Is this is going to be clean?”
Bernie leaned back against the rear of the bar, looking over at the box. He could make out the APSEL FEDERATE — ATOMIC ENERGY DIVISION stitched clearly against the side of it. The metal was flat and grey, heavy locks set against the side of it above a panel of some kind. “Clean?”
“Like a…” She thought for a moment, then took a sip of her drink. Haraway’s face screwed up and she coughed. “Jesus. What is this?”
“A little somethin’ somethin’,” said Bernie. “We make it out the back. House special.”
“Special’s one word for it,” she said, taking another sip. Only one of her eyes screwed up this time. “Like a negotiation.”
“The drink? It’s not a negotiation.”
“No. This.” She waved her cup at the bar behind her. “The syndicates. They deal in good faith.”
“Kinda sorta,” said Bernie. He thought back to the two company men in his bar, how one of them had snapped a gun across his leg like it was matchwood. “They really want what you’ve got. That makes it a little easier.” He looked at her breasts again, then took another sip from his drink.
Haraway looked away from him, towards the box in the middle of the bar. “Do you have the generator ready?”
“What? Yeah,” said Bernie. “See the cables on the stage?”
She twisted away from him, and Bernie could see her tight body in profile. Damn — maybe you should look for that bonus, Eckers. “Yeah, I see them.”
“Just plug ‘em in,” he said. “Normally for music shit. Lights, amps. I dunno, whatever the hell those musos use.”
Haraway looked doubtful. “Music?”
“It’s loud,” said Bernie. “It’ll be fine. Trust me.”
She looked over her glass at him. “What a curious phrase,” she said. “Why would I do that?”
“You company types, you’re all the same,” said Bernie. “Honest guy like me, just trying to get by? You think we’re all trying to steal from you. Get one over, you know?”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “That’s why I said it.”
“It’s not like that,” he said. He put his empty glass back on the bar, reaching for the bottle. “Another?”
“No,” said Haraway. “I’m still working on this one.”
“Your loss,” said Bernie. The amber liquid splashed against the side of the glass. He saw his hands shake just a little as he reached for it, and gripped the glass hard as he took a sip. Just something to settle the nerves, right? “I got you the place. My bar. I cleared it out. Friday night, busiest night. I’m losing money here. And I got you my contacts.”
She looked at the door. “They’re late.”
“They’re always late,” said Bernie. “It’s how they work.”
The soft rumble grew outside the bar, the sound of vehicles drawing closer. “There,” said Bernie. “Nothing to worry about.”
He drank from his glass again. Nothing at all, Eckers.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mason watched the overlay as the syndicate men walked towards the front door of The Hole. He stepped around the edge of the skylight, watching the big wide door at the front of the bar swing open.
Metatech. Reed. Both of the men he knew walked in the front door, Metatech in front. The man’s suit was immaculate, and he shook water off an umbrella onto the floor. Reed closed the door behind them both, shaking water off a long coat. Mason’s optics could pick out the water spots on his sunglasses.
Gotcha, asshole.
“Mason,” said Carter. “Odds are good that’s one of the remotes.”
“No shit,” said Mason.
“That’s not the cool thing,” said Carter. “Check this out.” She sent feeds from CCTV on the street onto his overlay, the images coming quick, tumbling into the corner of his vision.
“What… Wait. What?”
“Yeah,” said Carter. “Cool, right?”
Reed and Metatech operatives were stationed outside in the rain, next to their vehicles. The Reed men all wore the same face.
“I thought you said… I thought there’d be a pilot,” said Mason.
“Maybe,” said Carter. “We’re still pulling this one apart back here. I mean, sure, there’s definitely a pilot, but—”
“It can wait,” said Mason, leaning down to the skylight. He placed a hand against the perspex, the palm of the armor’s glove acting as an inductive microphone. The overlay flicked the images of the Reed men away, replacing them with a sound bar graph, the levels jumping and moving as the people in the room below him spoke.
“Eckers,” said Reed. “We’re here.”
“What?” said the short fat man — Bernie Eckers. “No hello?”
“Hello,” said Metatech. He moved forward acro
ss the room to Haraway. “You must be Doctor Haraway.” He held out a hand to her.
She took it. “I’m not a… Never mind. You are?”
“Ah,” said Metatech. “I represent Metatech.”
“I’m with Reed Interactive,” said the Reed man. “I kind of expected more interest here.”
“Yeah?” said Eckers. “Who’d have thought. C’mon doc. Let’s do this.”
She looked at the three men. “You’re… You’re going to see something special. You don’t want to… record this?”
The Reed man tapped the side of his head. “It’s all online. Don’t worry about us.”
Metatech nodded, pointing at the box, palm up. “If the box really does contain the rain…”
“Wait,” said Haraway. “The rain?”
Metatech and Reed looked at each other, and then at Eckers. Reed spoke first. “The interest is conditional on a number of factors. Mr. Eckers suggested that the recent atmospheric effects are controlled by Apsel technology.
“Yeah,” said Metatech. “And that the technology would be up for sale. But what we were really interested in—”
“We’ve of course heard about Jennifer Haraway, head of Apsel’s Atomic Energy Division.” Reed unbuttoned his jacket. “The acquisition of scientific minds is a top priority for us.”
Metatech looked back at Reed, then at Haraway. “It would be a package deal.”
Haraway looked at them, then at Eckers. “That’s not a part of the deal,” she said. “Tech for cash. Simple sum game.” She licked her lips.
“Fellas,” said Eckers, walking forward. Mason shifted against the skylight, trying to get a better view of the man. A sweat stain like an oil slick sat on the man’s back, the fabric sticking to him. Nervous. “Before we get too carried away, we should see the demonstration.”
“Of the atmospheric effect?” Metatech looked at Eckers, then at Haraway. “I’d be uncomfortable if we were wasting our time here.”
“Yes,” said Reed. “This endeavor has a significant dollars per hour investment in syndicate resources.”
Eckers was moving towards Haraway. “C’mon. Turn the thing on.”
“The rain’s not in the box,” said Haraway. She held up a hand before the other men could speak. “What’s in the box is much, much better than the rain.”
The two syndicate men looked at each other, then back to her. Metatech crossed his hands in front of him, the cuffs of his tailored shirt poking out from under his suit sleeves. The Reed man nodded at Haraway. “As you say, Doctor.”
“I’m not a—” Haraway shrugged, then moved towards the box in the middle of the room. She started tapping on the panel, the clamps holding the lid closed snapping open. The top began to retract open, soft smoke drifting on cold feet over the edge and onto the floor. “You’re probably wondering why I’m not concerned about you guys stealing this from me.”
Reed spread his hands. “We’re bargaining in good faith, Doctor Haraway. It would look bad if word got out that syndicates couldn’t be trusted in… financial matters.”
She looked over her shoulder at the man. “Right, financial. Well, the thing is, one of you bozos tried to use it already, and you know what happened then.”
“Wasn’t us,” said Metatech.
“No,” said Haraway. “It was him.”
Reed shrugged, as if saying, sometimes these things happen.
“Anyway,” she said, “you know what happens now if you don’t use it right.” She was pulling power cables from the stage over to the box. “It needs a lot of power.”
“Got it,” said Metatech. “That’s what you guys are good at, after all.”
Haraway started plugging cables into something in the box, the thick lines stretched across the floor, black against the concrete. “Yeah,” said Haraway. “If you think that’s Apsel’s only gig, this is going to blow your mind.” She clicked on something in the box, and a bass hum started.
The syndicate men didn’t move, but Eckers moved back with small nervous steps. “Doc,” he said, “what’s going on?”
She looked at Eckers, then started typing on a keyboard. Mason could make out some kind of computer within the box, set against a metal structure. Tubes. A solid core. Struts.
“Carter,” Mason said. “What the hell is that?”
“Already on it,” she said. “I can tell you something, though.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s not a reactor.” She paused, Haraway continuing to work beneath Mason, then Carter continued. “Ok, I got nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing. We don’t know what that is.”
“We made it,” said Mason. “We’ve got to know what it is.”
“Yeah, you’d think that, wouldn’t you,” said Carter. “This mission is starting to feel—”
“Stretched,” said Mason. He hefted the rifle in his free hand, his other glove still held against the skylight. “I’d say the parameters of the mission have become elastic.”
“Sure, elastic,” said Carter. “That’s a good word for it. When are you going to break up the party?”
“In a minute,” said Mason. “I have to say…”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t wait to see what’s in the box.” Mason smiled inside the helmet as the rain fell and spat around him.
Haraway was still working on the keyboard. Metatech shifted, the movement small. “Is this going to take much longer?”
“No,” said Haraway. “In fact… Well, here we go.” She tapped the enter key on the keyboard in front of her.
The lights in The Hole dimmed, and Mason could see the street lamps around him flicker and die. A bolt of electricity, bright as the sun, spat and arced out from the machinery in the box. Eckers ran behind the bar, ducking down from sight.
Metatech looked at Reed. “This is… unexpected.”
“Yeah,” said Reed. “I still don’t—”
A storm erupted from the box, arcs of lightning converging in the air in front of it. Mason’s overlay stuttered, static falling like snow, and the suit lost the audio from the room for a second.
The electricity was hitting the same spot, over and over again. It looked like it was hitting something, but Mason could only see empty air. There was a snap, and then —
“Fuck me,” said Mason. His suit had gone dark, Carter’s link down. He looked into the room, unblinking.
A perfect sphere sat in the room, the floor cracked and pressed down underneath it. Lightning continued to arc and crack from the box, feeding the sphere, the edges softening until they were gone.
Mason could see a circle of desert sand in the middle of the room. The light of a sun was falling on it, and three people looked back from the other side of the sphere into the room.
His link came back with a snap. “Mason!” Carter’s voice was frantic. “Thank God, you’re—”
“Now, Carter. Get Harry here now!”
“About goddam time,” said Harry.
The link carried the audio from the drop ship. “HALO insertion beginning on my mark. Time to burn, zero seconds. Time to fall, 11,000 meters. Time to impact, 47 seconds. Beginning burn, mark.”
Mason stood, slapping the rifle into the lock on his back, then pulled the subs from clamps on his belt. He clicked the suit over into combat mode, active camouflage dropping away as the reactor fired up. Cherenkov blue flaring out through the winged falcon etched on his back. He stood over the skylight, pointing the subs at the floor, and fell like a burning star as he held the triggers down.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The dawn smiled at them, fingers of their tired red sun reaching over the desert sand. Laia shivered, huddling against Zacharies in the cold.
The Master looked over at them, holding up a hand. “Come.” He gestured at the sand. “Make a fire.”
Zacharies looked around, the sand stretching alone and complete around them. “A fire? But Master, there is no—”
A look silenced him, Zachari
es looking back down at his knees, pulled close for warmth. He spared a glance for his sister.
“I can do it,” Laia said. She stood up, walking a little away from Zacharies.
The Master starred at her, the folds of his hood dark against the dawn. “I didn’t ask if you could do it.”
“Yes, Master.” She looked down at her feet, tugging at the collar around her neck. The metal made it so hard to think, to focus. Laia held her hands in front of her face, then let them fall, her shoulders slumped.
The whip tumbled free in the Master’s hand, the tails touching the ground, leaving small trails in the sand, like the passing of snakes. His eyes flicked to Zacharies. “And you will cook.”
“Yes, Master,” said her brother, walking towards the small bundle tied to the divan. He began to unwrap pieces of cloth, pulling out a small pot, some dried fruit, and some oatmeal. Zacharies didn’t look at the whip.
Looking at the whip drew attention to it, as if it wanted to be used. Laia shuddered, then tugged at her collar again. “Master..?”
The man walked over to her, his head bowed for a second, his hand held out towards Laia and the collar at her neck. She felt the release, like a hand had lifted from her mind — or a hand pulled back from around her throat.
It would be hard, yes. But for just a moment, she was free — free to use her gift, to see the world around her with other eyes, to call the light out. She stretched an arm out towards the sands at her feet, reaching deep inside it. Laia could feel the life in the old stones, these tiny rocks all that was left of once mighty castles and empires, spires stretched tall before her father’s father’s father had stood under the master’s whips.
“Come,” she said. Burn bright, show me your kingdom’s power. Just one last time. The sands shifted under her hand, a vibration so slight it was almost easy to overlook. The memory in the sands reached back to her, the tiny stones trembling in anticipation.
The fire spat and sparked, the stones remembering, reaching up to the sky, their spires and trellises a new memory against the dawn. The ghost of something mighty and tall rose around her, the stones burning bright in yesterday’s memory. They stretched one last time, glowing white with heat, spreading, before melting into glass.
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