The Digital Plague (8 page)

I closed my eyes and ground my teeth, still trembling. “Burn her,” I said quietly. “If this shit is still … spreading, then fucking burn her. Okay? Then get your shit together. We’re heading back uptown.” I turned and pushed past him, intending to drink until my hands stopped shaking. I scratched at the wound on my neck.
Newark,
I thought. “Someone in the Department of Public
Health
wanted to talk to me. So let’s go talk.”

Day Five:
You’ve just Killed me

Watching us, the two Crushers stood with their thumbs hooked into their belt loops, their uniforms sagging and wrinkled. One was a round, moon-faced Asian whose mouth worked absently in a constant chewing motion. The other was tall, pale, and rail thin, his pants too short for his legs, a thin, wispy beard shooting off his sharp chin. They slouched at the flimsy metal gate set up across Eighth Avenue and watched me approach with what they imagined were hardassed stares. The wind was a constant moan around us, dry and dustless, all the snow held in the gelatin-like yellow slush that clung to everything, making the world look rotted.

“Avery,” the tall one said as Jabali and I stopped in front of them. I was wearing my Special Occasion suit, for when I needed to overawe my business partners with my wealth and material success. It was a little floppy in the arms and legs but close enough, and expensive looking. When going uptown to deal with civilians, it paid to look the part. I’d cleaned up Jabali as much as I could, which wasn’t saying much, but he’d pass if he kept his mouth shut.

The checkpoints had gone up in record time overnight, and they’d drawn all the Crushers from the reserves, putting everyone on active duty. New York felt strange to me, thinned. Walking up Hudson Street in the morning there’d been elbow room to spare, and the people who were out pushing through fat flakes of acidic snow and the muffled, sound-eating air all seemed to move faster, scuttling as quickly through the street as they could. Rumors were already coming fast about a sickness, and people were staying indoors. I’d seen some dead bodies, too, just slumped here and there, looking like some wild animal had torn into them, the deep blue bruises on their necks and arms burst open, bloody, and no one willing to get near enough to them to move them off the street.

“Officer Stanley,” I said to the skinny Crusher, nodding. “And Mongo.”

The moon-man didn’t react beyond a slow, deliberate blinking of his eyes. I raised an eyebrow at Officer Stanley. “The SSF isn’t sparing any expense in recruiting, huh?”

Stanley turned his head and spat on the street, just a few inches away from my feet. “Pook can move pretty light on his feet, you give him a reason. You got business uptown, Avery? There’s an Action Item about you from yesterday, you know.”

I nodded, putting on the most serious face I could summon. “I have an appointment,” I said. “You guys expecting trouble?”

There’d been a bug scare about thirteen years ago, I remembered. Turned out to be the fucking Brazilian flu, just a few thousand people dead and those mostly on their last legs to begin with, but for a few days everyone hid inside and only came out with these ridiculous masks on, keeping their distance. I remembered negotiating a job from across the fucking street, shouting at my client because he wouldn’t get any closer to me.

This felt worse. Names pushed through my head:
Candida Murrow, she died in a very … unusual way, Gleason, she dead, Wa too, Pickering.
Whatever this was, I was getting the feeling it had started with my people. With
me,
right around the time I’d been on my knees in Newark with a gun to my head and
not
shot. I’d done enough evil in my time, the cosmos had me on its list, no doubt. But why hadn’t I gotten sick? Why wasn’t
I
dead? This shit didn’t make sense.

I remembered the distorted voice:
This is not an execution … this is an assassination. Not yours. But an assassination none the fucking less.

“They don’t tell us any fucking thing,” Stanley said, hitching his pants up and giving Jabali the stinkeye for a bit. “We’re just not supposed to let anyone through without a specific order from a Captain or above.”

I nodded, looking around. “I need a pass.”

He looked away from me, suddenly interested in something across the street. Jabali, who maybe wasn’t the brightest guy in the world, had the common sense to shut the hell up and pretend to be deaf and dumb. “Fuck, Avery, you just come up here in the fucking open and—I’m not selling any passes today. You got an order, fine. Otherwise you turn around and go the fuck back to your shithole. Try again tomorrow.”

My hands curled into fists and I recited my own personal Serenity Prayer. At least Stanley wasn’t dumb enough to think he could cash in on my
Action Item
and bring me in himself. I scanned the street, so quiet I could hear the snow dissolving our boots and Moon-man’s heavy mouth breathing. I counted eleven Crushers, not a drop of talent among them—especially Moon-man, who looked like he had to preplan every breath. I didn’t doubt I could rush the barrier and make it, but I didn’t need any manhunts up above Twenty-third Street, so I just shook my head. “I’ll pay double.”

Stanley pursed his lips.

“No bosses around,” I said quickly. “You know me, Stanley. You know you will never hear from me on the way back across. It’ll be like I was never here.”

“Shit, Avery,” he muttered, glancing at Jabali and taking a quick scan of the street again. “Double?”

I nodded. “The usual arrangement for payment. And we find our own way back.”

Stanley shook his head, turning to spit. “Nothing’s usual anymore. The fucking Worms have been up everyone’s asses. Marin sees
everything.
I ain’t gonna end up in some shithole like Chengara. Not for
you.
”

I swore to myself. Officially, Dick Marin was director of Internal Affairs for the SSF—the King Worm. Before I’d killed Squalor for him, that’s where his power had stopped, especially since he wasn’t human anymore. He was a digitized intelligence operating through who knew how many mechanical avatars. You met Dick Marin in a room and he
looked
human enough, but he was just a remote-control Droid, with the real Marin, if that word meant anything, in a server somewhere. As such, there was low-level programming that controlled his behavior, and he’d been allowed to terrify only the System Pigs—who were all scared shitless of him, since he was the only person empowered to fuck with them.

But when I’d killed Squalor—when Marin had
manipulated
me into killing Squalor—he’d been able to declare a State of Emergency, and under his own obscure rules that had given him a much wider portfolio to work with. Officially, the Emergency continued, though you didn’t hear about it much anymore. It bubbled in the background and allowed Marin to basically run the whole fucking System. A shadow emperor. He’d been closing his fist around everything ever since, and I was getting sick of it.

From what I’d heard, so were the Joint Council Undersecretaries, who should have benefited from events, too. Marin had had a free hand for years, but I’d heard rumors that the Undersecretaries were getting their shit together, and it promised to be an interesting time, assuming any of us survived.

One thing hadn’t changed, though: yen ran the world and guys like Stanley had to grift a bit just to survive. “Double plus a bonus,” I said, “for being flexible. We let it drift for now, and you touch me for it anytime you like. You know I’m good for it.”

I had a reputation, and it came in handy sometimes.

“Fuck,” he muttered, spinning around to see who was watching. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,
fuck.
” He looked at me again and pulled on his little beard. “All right,” he finally said, stepping aside and gesturing at Moon-man. “Open ’er up. Wait, wait a fucking sec,” he muttered, pulling me close and miming examining me. “Just in case, let’s at least look like you have a pass.” I let him shove me around a bit, amused, because if any of the System Pigs
were
watching, he was pretty much going to get the shit beat out of him, or worse, no matter what kind of dumb show he put on. Finally, he patted me down and pushed me to the other side, grabbing Jabali by the lapels. Jabali didn’t like it, but he took it. He was the sort of lifetime soldier who could hold his temper, and think twice—useful.

“All right, move,” he growled, turning away. “Don’t fucking dawdle.”

I didn’t pause for more conversation; Jabali and I stepped quickly through the barricade and kept walking, turning onto a side street as soon as we could. When the checkpoint had disappeared around the corner, Jabali cursed softly.

“Fucking hate sucking their dicks,” he muttered. “Those assholes aren’t worth shit.”

I didn’t say anything. Jabali was a Taker, and a good one; he’d tracked down Dr. Daniel Terries for me in just a few hours. But I’d been unable to discourage his tendency to think I gave a shit about what he thought.

While we walked, trying to approximate the alien gait of men without worries, I studied him, looking for any sign that he was sick or impaired in some way. The math was easy: Gleason had been sick a day and a half after we came back from Newark and dead in three. This shit didn’t take time. He looked okay, though.

As we made our way uptown, the streets started to fill up a little, people better dressed and a little cheerier than I was used to, but not so different. The whole world was a fucking shit pyramid. Shit ran downhill and turned the wheel, kept things burning, but you had to have a lot of people trying to get out of the way of the shit or nothing much happened. These people were a little higher on the pyramid, maybe, but they were running for shelter just like the rest of us. They sure smelled better, although the mix of colognes and perfumes in the air made my head ache.

Jabali lumbered along next to me, looking like a hood. It was in his walk—you could put him in a decent suit, but the bastard still walked like a criminal—half cocky strut, half paranoid scuttle. But he looked healthy, normal. I had the strange feeling of everything being on pause, like that moment before a storm when you can feel the electricity in the air but nothing’s started yet, and kept stealing glances at him, expecting to see a sudden bruise on his neck like I’d seen downtown.

He caught me looking at him and smiled nervously, his hair flopping about. “Feel like ev’ryone is staring at me, boss,” he said, shrugging his coat on.

I nodded. A lot of people couldn’t handle being uptown—you learned how to live a certain way, you learned to never take shit and never back off, to do your little dance every day, the toughest bastard in the room, any room, no matter what—and it was hard to try and act like a civilian. Some of us just couldn’t do it. I knew real killers who wouldn’t go past Twenty-third Street for anything because they couldn’t stand the looks they got.

Terries lived around Fiftieth Street, real posh. As we humped up and across town, my skin started to crawl: everyone was clean, and styled, and the weirdest part was the fucking
hum of conversation.
Everyone was talking and making no effort to hide the fact, laughing, shouting. I’d never thought of downtown as quiet before. As we walked, it was like everyone was fucking shouting, and I was sweating, my hair standing on end. I made my living being fucking quiet. Noise equaled death, where I came from.

“Spare some yen?”

I started, one hand reaching for my piece before I caught myself. The Monk danced in front of me, limping on a damaged leg that had been repaired with a lead pipe welded at the knee. It wore a ragged suit of clothes, but its white plastic face was still perfect, clean and unmarred, floating like a moon in front of me. We were in an open area, the street widening out and making me dizzy with so much space. A church loomed up on our right, two sharp little spiky towers reaching for the sky, the three huge doors capped by triangular masonry. It was impossibly big, ancient stone wearing away under the weather, covered in bird shit and chipped to hell. I blinked stupidly as we walked past, herding the Tin Man ahead of us. Five or six other Monks sat on the church’s steps, crouching, like birds.

I hadn’t been this close to a Monk in years. It had put on the best smile it could manage, which wasn’t much, and kept its balance magically as it hopped backward on its ruined leg. It looked from me to Jabali and back again, and I tensed up; the Monks were equipped with Optical Facial Recognition circuits, and back when they’d been hooked up to the Electric Church’s net they’d been able to scan your face and come up with your name and any public information on you that was out there. The Electric Church was gone, but if they’d scanned you years ago, they still had the info, and sometimes a Monk would call you by name.

I looked past it at the wide, dizzying expanse of street ahead of us. “Get the fuck out of my way,” I growled. I was still acting my part. You never knew who might be paying attention.

It scuttled away and accosted someone behind us. I turned my head left and stared into the SSF hover yard, a big empty lot a block from The Rock where the cops kept a fleet of your standard hovers—small, two-or three-man units, not the big fat ones that could be stuffed with Stormers. A bunch of Crushers and officers were hanging around outside it, and some stared back at me as I walked. It was always bad to stare at the System Pigs. They didn’t care for it and liked to teach lessons, but I couldn’t make my head turn back. The hovers all looked scruffy and beat-up, sporting unmatched armor plating and evidence of rough handling. Not a single one looked new.