by J. N. Chaney
"A general alert or do they know it's me?" I asked.
"I have insufficient data to know the answer to this question," X-37 said. Something about his tone seemed strained. “Apologies, maintaining a presence in the local network is requiring a lot of processing power."
Static rippled across my vision. I ignored it, hoping there wouldn't be a wave of nausea-inducing pain to follow.
"What's your recommendation, X?" I asked.
"Partial deception. Rather than create a complex backstory, I would like to block access with tiny bits of real information accessible to anyone who has the skills and the tenacity to find it," X-37 said.
"Do it," I said. “Keep tabs on what we see. I'm going in."
The door opened as I approached it, sliding upward into the ceiling, confirming my suspicion it was rated as another blast door. If they didn't want to let me in, I wouldn't get in, even if I had brought explosives.
Passing through the doorway, I saw that the barrier was nearly a foot thick and made from two layers of reinforced steel.
A pair of silent guards escorted me forward into a large room. They wore tactical gear that would make most assault teams jealous, but in all black with no insignia. The place had the feel of an underground library or secret cathedral.
The man facing me from the other side of a huge wooden desk was extremely tall and extremely thin. He had the look of someone who had spent most of his adolescence on a space ship or station with poorly calibrated gravity simulators.
"Quite a place you have here," I said, spotting two additional guards who were lurking in the shadows. They also wore heavy body armor and carried shotguns with drum magazines of extra ammunition.
"Thank you for coming, Wyatt Gold,” the lean, older man with strange eyes said, not sounding at all thankful.
I resisted the urge to question X-37 about his name choice. My adversary was dangerous, more so than anyone I'd ever met. I had known a lot of cunning and devious individuals. I recognized confidence, especially the kind that had been well earned.
This man had the advantage over me and not just because I was in his underground bunker surrounded by heavily armed guards. X-37 and I were playing a careful game of truth and misdirection. This man who had established a functioning assassins’ guild was clearly a master of the game.
"You haven't asked my name.” He leaned back in his chair slightly, resting his left hand on the edge of the desk. His right hand was in his lap, probably holding a weapon.
“What’s your name?” I asked, focusing on his body, eye movement, posture, and the pace of his words to evaluate his level of honesty.
He smiled slyly, almost reluctantly. "Call me… Mr. Gold, since Gold clearly is not your name.” He leaned forward, catching more of the room’s untrustworthy light on his face. “And also for these," he said, pointing at his gold irises.
"It's good to meet you. I hadn't expected such personalized treatment. All I wanted to know was about the contract," I said.
"Which contract? We have many that are active," he said. If he was annoyed I wasn’t more intimidated, he didn’t show it.
I responded without hesitation. "The contract that has a bounty higher than all the others combined."
"Ahh,” he breathed. "I suppose you are the right person to bring her in."
"You don't know me," I promised him.
"I might know you better than you think, Halek Cain."
"Who? Never heard of the guy," I said, keeping my eyes on my adversary.
"Surely you've heard of the man who murdered seventeen upstanding citizens of Night City,” Gold said.
I shook my head. "Not ringing any bells."
The name he had given for my home world, Boyer 5, was slang, and not complimentary. I didn't know if that meant he was being sarcastic in his reference to the gang members I had punished for killing my father or if he had some connection with them that would make us mortal enemies.
Gold snapped his fingers, sending all of the guards from the room. The two lurking in the shadows stepped backward until doors closed in front of them like he kept them in some sort of tactical locker. The other two went out the door I had come in and closed it.
"Let's get serious, Cain. I keep a tight watch over all the contracts on Greendale, including assassinations," he said.
"So you're not just head of the assassins’ guild, but a crime lord," I said.
He didn't respond immediately. "Call it what you like. But don't forget that I run Greendale."
"Maybe we can work together," I said.
"Maybe," he answered. "You're a Reaper, and that's always a problem."
"It doesn't have to be." I wasn't sure where he was going with this, but suspected his problem with me wasn't what I thought it was.
"I already had some issues with a Reaper. He killed some of my best men. If any of my people find out you're one of the murderous freaks, they’ll want your head," he said.
At least some of this was a lie. He’d dealt with a Reaper, I thought, but felt there was more to it than he was letting on.
"Tell me about this contract. If it's what I think it is, then I have a vested interest and anybody who opposes me should be ready to go to war," I said, surprising myself with the statement. "All I want is one person from this planet, then I'll leave and cause you no problems."
"Interesting,” he said.
"How did you know my name?" I asked.
He chuckled and spread his hands as if the answer was obvious. "The other Reaper told me. He said Halek Cain is coming and if I didn’t get rid of the girl from Dreadmax, Cain would come here looking for her and kill everyone."
"Where is she?”
"Do you want her for the Union?” he asked.
This felt like a test question. I didn't have enough information about the crime boss to understand his allegiances. "I'm no friend of the Union."
"I didn't think you would be. But maybe you could do some work for me if things go right. Go find the girl. I won't help you, but I won’t hinder you. That's a good deal, trust me."
I said nothing. He had given me his blessing on the contract too easily. X-37 whispered possible reasons for this in my ear, but I wasn’t in a place for a discussion with my digital friend.
"My people will show you out," Mr. Gold said.
"I know the way. But thanks." I lit my cigar, taking my time, then made my exit.
12
I left the assassins’ guild and found Frank at a street-side food vendor. He had stayed long past the expected time of our meeting, stalwart as I remembered him from our days in the Union army. He looked uncomfortable but unwilling to leave me hanging.
"I wish you hadn't come to Greendale," Frank said.
“Why didn’t you warn me about the smoking police?” I asked, fishing a Gronic Fats out of my pocket.
He responded by digging into his cigarettes and lighting up moments later. “There aren’t cops just for that; they do other things. A buddy of mine on the force said they have a lot of pressure to improve the air quality in Zag City. Some travel guru gave the place a bad rating and the entire galaxy now thinks Zag is synonymous with ashtray.”
“I don’t see why,” I said as we both exhaled clouds of smoke into the air.
“You were in there a while,” he observed. "Is everything all right? Should I be worried?"
“It’s a big place full of interesting people,” I said, reviewing the numbers on my HUD that X-37 had recorded. I had purposely gotten lost on my way out to expand my map of the facility. Guards had quickly located me and escorted me to the proper elevator.
By some miracle hack that X-37 had pulled off, the elevator stopped frequently when I was sure it had been designed to move directly to the exit without any side trips possible. After a while, I found guards waiting for me each time the elevator opened. Even when they blocked my wandering, I gathered information on their security elements—how many guards they had, what they were equipped with, and how fast they responded to a
minor breach of their security protocols.
“What’s it like being a fugitive?” Frank asked. “There are times I’d like to just run away. Shitty job, demanding home life, one boring day after another. Might be good to go renegade.”
“I was built for this kind of survival. I wouldn’t recommend it to a normal person. You’d have fun for a while, but then you would get homesick,” I said.
He nodded animatedly, dropped his cigarette, and twisted it out under his boot before lighting another only seconds later. “Zag City looks like an amazing place, and maybe it is, but it has a dark underbelly.”
“Most cities do,” I said. “You're retired. It's unfair of me to ask so much."
I really wanted to say more, to express my sincerity, but graciousness and humility weren't something they taught in the Reaper Corps.
Frank locked his eyes on his feet, smoke twirling up from the cigarette he held down at his side. He dug at a groove in the concrete with the toe of one work boot.
"I feel like shit for not keeping better track of Elise," he said, tensing up. I observed he was fit but very lean. His life hadn't been easy. I was sure that if I asked him he would tell me that his training in the Union military prepared him for other trials. I thought it probably hadn't hurt but that he had been tough before he enlisted.
He was a good man who sold himself short.
I waited, aware he was about to make some type of admission.
"I followed her to school a couple of times, during the brief time she stayed with us and also afterward. Every now and then, I'd surprise her at work. Thought I'd be embarrassing her, but she rolled with the punches. Her boss was suspicious, somewhat protective, but never gave me a hard time. I thought that was enough. I mean, what was really going to happen?"
"You know where she works now?" I asked.
"Sure," he said. "She waits tables at a diner if you’re hungry.”
"I never turn down a meal," I said.
We headed through the revitalized downtown district of Zag City. It was different during the daytime, clean or somehow more organized. Excessive vehicle and pedestrian traffic made it louder than it had been at night, if that was possible. Frank moved easily through the crowd, never stepping out of anybody's way but never requiring others to swerve around him. That made me think he planned his steps in advance.
The diner where Elise worked was on a concrete island surrounded by wide sidewalks and major streets. It had an old look and feel to it, with classic music playing from the public address system. There were tables and benches outside.
"They usually have quite a waiting list over the lunch hour," Frank said. "Looks busy, but we shouldn't have a hard time finding a place to sit today.”
“Let’s find a booth or something. I want to see her before she sees me. Might just leave if she looks okay.” I waited until he wouldn't take my words as a criticism. "Why did you stop following her to school and checking on her at work?"
He shrugged. “She's hard to follow. It got to be a lot of effort and didn't seem worth it. So far as I could tell, she was doing way better on her own than she would be with me following her around."
We took our seats. It didn't take me long to spot her. She had put on weight but was still slim and useful. "She's taller than I remember."
Her dark, almost black hair was up in a ponytail. She had grown out the poorly bleached hair I remembered from Dreadmax. It was thick and luxurious now, complementing her smooth skin and youthful vitality.
“Why are you angry?” X-37 asked.
I didn’t answer but adjusted my attitude. She didn’t deserve to be anywhere near my world. I understood why the Union was after her. I knew that her father had used technology from the Lex project to cure her of a childhood disease.
Now she was too valuable for the Union to let go. That didn’t change how unfair her life was about to become. All I saw was a young woman making people happy through hard work and self-sacrifice. The galaxy needed more people like her and fewer people like me.
The first time I saw her, she was in a cage dressed to amuse dangerous men on a doomed prison station.
In a perfect galaxy, I could lurk near her as I was doing right now and protect her. Instead of a killing machine, I could be a guardian angel. Maybe that would make the Deadlands a better place. Maybe that would redeem a few of my sins.
Frank took one of the barstools and leaned his elbows on the counter. "That happened not long after you left her with us. Once she started eating regularly, it was like she had a growth spurt. I don't think she'll get much taller than she is now, but something had stunted her growth."
She did ten things at once and still looked bored. I never saw her use a ticket when taking an order. The young woman seemed to just remember things. At one point, she carried a huge tray in both hands, lifting them high over her head to avoid another waitress who wasn't paying attention. All the while, she was calling back details to the cook then admonishing the hostess in charge of seating people who wasn't doing her job.
She worked her way toward our end of the counter, but her attention was on all the other customers. From what I gathered through my eavesdropping, someone had not shown up for work and she was covering two sections.
"Thanks again, Elise," the owner and cook bellowed. "I know the dinner rush appreciates you, even if Mags doesn't."
Elise paused in a routine and cast him a delightfully sweet smile. "That's nice, Jimmy. Does that mean you're giving me a raise?"
They both laughed. Some of the regular patrons joined in with their own comments.
"I can see why you didn't think you needed to look after her," I said. “This place looks safe.”
"She has a way with people," Frank said. "I've seen her get mean too. But not often, and only with the neighborhood bullies."
"You should've seen her on Dreadmax," I said.
Frank became quiet.
"What's on your mind, Frank?” I asked.
"Nothing. I was just thinking about back in the day. Stuff better left in the past," he said.
He was lying. I knew he was lying.
"He's probably connecting your name to the Union propaganda about the Butcher of Dreadmax,” X-37 offered.
The Union public information machine had put out quite a tale after Dreadmax, I knew. Their official narrative had been that an insane gang leader, a convicted terrorist and enemy of the people, had staged an uprising then detonated a nuclear device, eliminating all evidence of what had happened.
"Someday I'll tell you the truth about Dreadmax,” I said.
Frank grew even more uncomfortable and waved away my promise.
13
"What can I get you?” Jimmy, the diner owner, asked. “Elise has her hands full."
The man looked us over, wiping his hand on his counter towel.
"Coffee," I said, pulling my cigar from my front pocket.
Frank put his hand on my arm to stop me. Jimmy gave me a dark look as he retreated to get our drinks.
We paid in advance and I left a good tip. I wasn't sure how Elise would respond to my return and wanted to get a feel for her mood.
Two cups of coffee later, the crowd was thinning out and Elise was in the back room taking her break.
“There’s a rhythm to the sound of a diner I’ve always liked,” Frank said.
His words took me back. I think his unique way of looking at things was what had drawn me to him. I’d been a dark, intense youth far away from home—as shady as that home was, I still missed it. We were the same age, but Frank always seemed more mature.
I listened to the sound of people talking and plates clattering from the back where someone was washing them and telling jokes.
The place was full of interesting characters. I paid attention to the people Elise knew well.
One of them was an older man, perhaps in his mid-fifties, with a hard face and salt-and-pepper hair cut short. Most of his grooming efforts had been put into his mustache. He sat with a coffee
cup in one hand and his eyes on a public-use data pad, likely checked out from the local library.
I zoomed in and was happy to find it didn’t cause a blinding headache to use that function of my Reaper eye.
“That’s Tom,” Frank said. “Looks like he’s reading Advanced Theories of Aerodynamics as Applied to Union Vessels again.”
“Never heard of it. Sounds boring,” I said.
“He reads a lot. People tease him about his selection. He once read the instruction manual for Jimmy’s coffee machine from start to finish,” Frank said.
“Is that a long book?” I asked.
“Three hundred and ninety-two pages,” Frank said.
“Does he know how to make coffee?” I asked.
“No idea, but Jimmy does. That’s one of the things that makes this the best diner in the neighborhood,” Frank said, lifting a cup Jimmy had set down without explanation.
The place was so busy, the owner/operator came out from time to time to greet people and fill coffee cups. Elise worked hard but was clearly doing the job of more than one waitress.
Tom turned the page, read for a while, then set down his coffee cup. There was a moment where he was looking at the pad, but I didn’t think he was reading. At the end of the pause, he looked down the bar and saw me.
I wasn’t able to read his expression, but I was certain he’d notice my Reaper arm. It seemed unfair he would recognize it for what it was, because I was still wearing a glove and had my coat sleeve pulled down. It took effort to resist adjusting the sleeve.
Tom picked up his coffee cup and went back to reading. Elise grabbed the coffee pot and refilled his cup with a dangerously high pour. Black liquid arced down into the cup as he held it forward like they’d performed the maneuver hundreds of times.
“There you go, Tom,” she said.
“You’re an angel,” he replied.
The smile she answered with was warm and trusting.
She took several orders, recited them back to Jimmy, who was working frantically now, then delivered plates to one of the tables at the other end of the diner.
