Ashes of the Fall (23 page)

The second is easy to answer for us both—trust is impossible amongst those willing to compromise their morals. But I fully intend on delivering, as I see no viable alternatives. Tanner will run the world into the ground—and no system is worse than what we have now.

I’ll just have to live with the consequences. The duffel bag Blackstone retrieved from his mansion dangles across the handlebar, bouncing off the dirt bike’s headlight as I hang a right. Inside is the well-padded 2.5” solid state drive—the one that began this HIVE mess.

The Antidote.

Blackstone swore that Carina Alonso gave it up willingly—that the Lionhearted support his vision for a newer, more unified and accepting NAC. It’s apparent that, despite the original terms, he required no assistance from me in tracking her down.

Which leads me to wonder why, exactly, I’m vital now. Surely there are engineers better equipped to assemble HIVE than I. But no, it’s going to be me travelling to the coordinates from the demo. Me and a friend. Blackstone punched in Matt’s coordinates, and they’re right in the middle of it all.

The Black Hole.

After I told him about the coordinates and he ran them, he insisted that I meet with someone—an old ally of his, the staunchest of supporters. Two being stronger than one.

The sounds of the pitchfork mobs start to trickle down the main streets. Sticking to the alleys has served me well thus far, but I can’t hide forever. Hopefully this old ally can help with my notoriety problem.

I cut the bike’s engine in front of an abandoned liquor store. Then I chain it to a pole and walk slowly towards the corner. Still weaponless, I feel exposed on foot. The duffel bag’s handles are gripped tightly in my hand. I unzip the bag and push the hard drive aside to take out a plastic envelope. It’s filled with paper cash.

Not just any paper cash.

Matt’s paper cash.

I guess Blackstone figured that retrieving some of my brother’s stuff would have sentimental value. Because also in the bag is Matt’s HoloBand, in a clear plastic protective shell. He said he got all this stuff back at the same time he got the suicide note. Held the rest of it back in case I needed an extra push.

After all, this is what I have left of my brother: A HoloBand, a two-page suicide note and some ratty bills. He also gave me back the credit slips from my strongbox and the .38 with the hollow points. It’s a nice enough gesture, I guess.

The street perpendicular to mine is bathed in pulsing neon from a club. Blackstone insisted I meet his contact here, for safety reasons. I guess he didn’t entirely trust that I wasn’t backstabbing him. I shove my hands in my pockets, keep my head low, and walk around the corner.

The Red Bee casts a yellow and crimson light across the street. It’s a nice club, by the standards of the Otherlands—expensive, upscale. Which means that people are looking to party, rather than to snitch or score a quick bounty. Milling outside are party-goers bobbing and nodding their heads to an invisible beat. I clutch the handles of the bag, put my head down, and start walking.

A couple of them turn to look at me as I pass.

“Hey, you’re that guy,” one of the women says, her eyes glassed over. “You should be careful, man.”

I press onwards, through the black double doors. The pulsating bass hits me in the entry-room. A tired man with piercings lining his face gives me the once over.

“Press you neck up against the wall to pay,” he says. “Two hundred credits.”

I glance at the wall, where a hood-like object a little lower than head-height sits. Even if I wasn’t wanted, a scan would be impossible—my HoloBand’s been removed. Instead of walking over, I tap on the glass.

“Hey man, don’t do that.” His dull eyes stare back at me. “I’ll call security.”

“I got something better than that,” I say. “But I can’t scan.”

“Then you don’t get in,” he says. “Join everyone else and hunt that dude on the streets, man.”

If only he knew
that dude
was right in front of him. But he’s either too stoned or oblivious to notice. I take the plastic bag from the duffel and then press the cash up against the window. The kid’s eyes go wide, registering that this could be a huge score.

“Push me through manually.”

“That’s against policy, man, I don’t know.”

“There’s a couple thousand credits here,” I say.

“Nah,” the kid says. “I could lose my job.”

I pull out the credit slips, which are also worth a few thousand. “You can trade these in for HoloBand credit, man. Just gotta go to the corrections office.”

“I hate that place, man,” he says. “Everyone does.”

“You make what, maybe twenty-five credits a night?”

“Twenty,” he says, glancing at the slips nervously.

“This is almost a year of pay,” I say. “All you gotta do is let me through.”

“If I get caught, man—”

“Then don’t get caught.”

He presses the button and lets me through. Luckily for him, there are no cameras to watch him as he sneaks out from behind the bulletproof window to accept his haul. The kid stares at the slips and the bills, then catches a glimpse of what’s inside the open duffel.

“Hey, man, no guns inside.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” I say, then I zip up the bag and open the bright red doors with a black bee painted in relief in their center.

The music doesn’t play so much as
throbs
, the interior of the club one big dance floor. It’s largely dark, except for waitresses with flashing red lights arranged on their shapely backs like bee stripes. An occasional burst of red light rains down from the rafters, but otherwise the club resembles a sensory deprivation tank.

As my eyes adjust to the limited light, I try to locate the stairs. Blackstone told me to meet his man on the second floor. A little flash of crimson shows that the path is straight ahead and to the right. I begin cautiously making my way through the gyrating crowd, stepping on toes and bumping into elbows constantly.

I don’t know who designed this place, but either they’re a genius or a moron. If you’re not wasted, the design flaws immediately become apparent. A waitress comes up to me and a light flashes. I see that she has little nightvision goggles on, so that she can navigate the crowd.

“Nectar?” she says in a smooth purr during a lull in the undulating bass. Miniature pots of honey sit atop her golden tray.

I tell her no thanks and push past. After a couple of minutes, I make it to the stairs. It’s easy-going from here, since most of the people are on the dancefloor. I’m stopped by a big fella at the top, the intermittent flashes showing me that one of his eyes is missing. I remember Marshwood’s lifeless eye. Must be a hazard of living down here for too long.

“VIP only,” he says, with a tone that indicates I am not a VIP.

“I’m here to meet someone,” I yell over the sounds.

He glances down at the bag. “What’s in there?”

“Nothing.”

The big guy reaches for the handles. “Anything good for me?” I dodge him in the blackness, almost falling down the stairs. He grunts and laughs. “No fee, no entry.”

I’ve already spent all my money. A burst of red light, and he’s staring right at me.

“I’m meeting a friend,” I say, slowly and forcefully. “A friend of Director Blackstone’s.”

“I know you,” he says, his voice rising.

“I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, I do,” he says, and I back up a little as he tries to place it.

“Just one of those faces.”

Recognition flashes in his eyes with the next red burst. “You’re Luke Stokes.”

And then he lunges at me, and we’re tumbling down the stairs, his big arms wrapped around my chest. I manage to cling to the bag. We collide with a group of dancers at the bottom. They shriek with surprise and then begin to laugh.

I don’t find any of it funny, though. I elbow the bouncer in the face and his grip around my chest loosens. I try to slip away, but he trips me by the ankle, and I crash against one of the waitresses.

He catches up and puts his knees on my calves. I can hear him yelling over the bass. No one seems to care about this little melee. Then again, it’s hard to see. I feel his hands clawing up my back, towards the bag.

I wiggle forward, kicking backwards with my heel. I catch him in the thigh, and he lets loose again. Struggling with the zipper, I start on the only plan I can think of.

The .38 clatters to the floor as I shake the open bag out, the drive and HoloBand bouncing on to the ground too. I feel him pawing at the back of my shirt.

I point the gun over my shoulder and pull the trigger, feeling a spray of blood rain down. The bouncer falls off my back, the weight releasing from my calves. The Red Bee erupts into screams—everyone here is familiar with the flash of muzzle fire.

Footsteps stampede around me, trampling my hands. The house lights come on, sending shooting pains through my eyes. But the mass exit halts, everyone stunned by the sudden stream of light. Through watering eyes, I manage to locate the HoloBand and the drive. They’ve somehow both survived. I leave the empty duffel behind, stuff the valuables in my pockets, and stagger to my feet.

I push through the remaining crowd, .38 in hand. A few of the braver patrons venture quick glances at me, albeit through cracked fingers and squinted eyes. I probably look like a demon from the depths of hell, wild-gazed and covered in another man’s blood.

Climbing the stairs, I find no resistance at the top. I scan the balcony for my contact. At the end, overlooking the DJ’s stage, is a familiar face. Side-part, pale skin.

Kid Vegas waves me over.

“You look like you’ve been through the wringer, Stokes,” I say.

“You,” I say, the words failing to come. “You said you didn’t want to work with Blackstone.”

“Maybe I changed my mind,” he says, surveying the scene below. The anarchy has escalated, the actual sight of the dead man spurring new panic. “Maybe I’m a liar. Either way, our fates are tethered together, it seems.”

I have my money on liar. And I want to know why. I point the gun at him. “Tell me which one it is.”

“We don’t have time for this, Stokes. You’re a wanted man. That’s why you came here, remember? For help getting to the Black Hole. And judging by your little entry scene below, we don’t have a lot of time to waste getting to know each other over drinks.”

I jab the gun in his face, almost touching his nose. From the corner of my vision, I think I see some people pointing at the balcony. Apparently my little streak of violence has burst them out of their drugged haze. And here I thought that couldn’t be done.

“We can both die together.”

“I was part of the Gifted Minds Program,” Kid says. “I tricked them, really. I had to do whatever I could in order to survive after my old man died. Forced me to become
good
at surviving. Even Blackstone didn’t know I was Ford’s kid until I left. The HoloBands, you see, were going to be a problem. Mandatory for all Inner Circle members, complete with DNA profiles. I would be exposed.” He shrugs. “Nothing like digging your own grave, right Stokes? Or designing a piece of it, in this case. Your brother, he was the brilliant one.”

“So you’ve been lying from the beginning,” I say. “What do you want?”

“I told you that I had my own thing going,” Kid says. “Same as you, working the angles. You knew. I could see it in your eyes, the minute the glasses fell off my face. You knew. You just didn’t care.”

“What do you
want
?” I repeat.

“An actual seat at the table,” Kid says. “Not VP of nothing, or vagabond-in-chief. Somewhere that matters.”

I take the gun down with a trembling arm. “How’re you gonna help me?”

“That’s easy, Stokes.” He reaches into his pocket, ignoring the panic below, and extracts a coin. “I’m going to help you activate HIVE.”

He slides the coin across the table. Now I realize that none of this was by accident—the HoloBand, the .38, the money. These people from Gifted Minds—and their leader—they’re playing on a different field.

One where I might not see even a tenth of the variables.

“It’s obvious that your brother didn’t want anyone else running HIVE besides him,” Kid says. “But we’re hoping that maybe the system he created will also recognize you.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I spent seven years with Matt,” Kid says without sentimentality, “he always thought you were special. And he did want your help with this little undertaking, did he not? That’s why you came to New Manhattan in the first place. What project is bigger than this?”

I think about Marshwood leading me to the source, how Matt told him to help me if anything happened. So maybe I am part of the plan for HIVE. Put it together. Blackstone and Kid must think so, at least—that’s why I’m helping, after all. I reach into my pocket and take out the plastic case. It’s still intact. Kid preps the coin extractor as I remove the cover on the HoloBand.