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“A hunch?”
 
Carter paused.
 
“You want me to do a bunch of work on a hunch?”

Mason put his hand against Haraway’s door.
 
“Ok.
 
It’s more than a hunch.
 
Haraway’s sister.”

“Marlene.”

“Marlene, right.
 
What would you do if your sister left the syndicate?”

“I’d…”
 
Carter paused.
 
“I don’t know.”
 
There was doubt in her voice.
 
“I’ve never had a sister.”

“I don’t have a sister, but I figure if I did, I’d want to know where she is.
 
I don’t know if I’d leave all this,” and Mason’s arm gestured at the hallway around them, “but I’d want to know she was ok.”

And maybe, just maybe, I’d want to walk away from it all.
 
If I had a sister, and she’d yelled for help in the dark, cold world?
 
Maybe that’d be enough
.

Mason walked away from Haraway’s office, tapping the notebook against his leg.
 
“Carter?”

“Mason.”

“What does the word, ‘Eckers,’ mean to you?”

“Who knows.
 
Password?”

“It’s a pretty weak password.”

“The weak ones are the best.
 
When I was in training I used, ‘password,’ for seven weeks before anyone guessed it.”

“No shit?”

“No shit, Mason.”
 
He could feel Carter’s smile coming down the uplink.
 
“Sometimes the simple stuff is best.”

“Ok, let’s say it’s a password.”
 
Mason walked past another researcher, white lab coat and harried expression moving past too quick for a nod.
 
“What’s it mean?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Well, you base passwords on stuff, right?
 
Like your mother’s maiden name, or a simple word.
 
‘Eckers’ is a pretty weird thing.
 
It’s just a set of letters.”

“Like a name,” said Carter.
 
“It could be a name.”

“That feels right,” said Mason.
 
He paused in the corridor, getting his bearings.
 
“Can you do a search?”

“Already running,” she said.
 
“There’s a bunch of Eckers kicking around.
 
Which one do you want?”

Mason held the notebook up in front of his eyes, then flipped to Marlene’s photo.
 
He looked at the girls’ face, the smile, and then turned it over.
 
I’m free
.
 
That’s what she’d written.
 
“I want one that’s got a criminal record.”

“Narrows it down a bit,” said Carter.
 
“You’ve got ten left.
 
Why a record?”

“Anyone who’s tied to a syndicate won’t have a record.
 
Not for this.”

“Not for what?”

“Escape, Carter.
 
She ran away from us.
 
And her sister is trying to find her.”

The building was big and old, windows dark, some broken.
 
A set of double doors at the front reminded Mason of a barn entrance, big enough to herd cattle through.
 
A badly painted sign banged in the rain, weathered letters spelling out
The Hole
.

“Now this shit is classy.”
 
Mason got off the big Suzuki, the drive powering down with a soft whine.
 
“I mean, seriously.
 
I thought the last part of town was trash, but this is taking it down a few more steps.”

“It’s a popular location.
 
Before they lost the Space Needle, anyway.”
 
Carter paused.
 
“According to satellite surveillance, there was a significant gathering earlier this evening.”

“Significant?
 
Define significant, Carter.
 
Ten guys?
 
A hundred?”

“More like a few hundred.
 
It’s hard to be sure.”

“Ok, that’s significant.”
 
Mason’s helmet snickered back into his collar, the rain starting to bite his face.
 
“Wait.
 
It’s hard to be sure?”

“Some members of the crowd didn’t have a tag.”

“Illegals, huh?”

“It’s not illegal, Mason.”
 
Carter sighed down the link.
 
“It’s just strongly discouraged.”

Mason snorted.
 
“Yeah, sure.
 
You and I went to different schools, Carter.
 
Different schools.”

“You should get out of the rain, Mason.”

“Yeah.”
 
Mason rubbed his jaw, feeling where the rain was starting to burn his skin.
 
“Ok.
 
I’ll go see who’s home.”

As he walked away from the bike, the machine’s lights dimmed.
 
Mason could hear the plink of cooling metal against the tap of the rain.
 
His feet scuffed against a few stray pebbles, the street and footpath in disrepair.
 
A Budweiser —
staple of the common man
— bottle lay in the gutter, the rain slowly burning the label from it.
 
He pushed open the door, which swung back on surprisingly even hinges.

He’d expected a creak at least.
 
It’d have gone well with the inside of the place, all blacks and reds.
 
An actual stage was set against the back wall, lights and speakers cold and lifeless.

At least it had a full length, not-fuck-around bar.
 
The rest of the room was just a big empty space.

Except for her.
 
A woman was at the bar, a bottle of something amber —
no glass
— in front of her.
 
She sat in a small pool of light, the dim room stretching out around her like a lake of gloom.
 
Her eyes flicked to him as he stepped inside, then away.
 
“We’re closed.”

Mason smiled.
 
“Bars never close.”

“This one does.
 
Fuck off.”
 
She took a pull from the bottle, swallowing big.

Mason shut the door behind him, walking towards her.
 
He nodded at the bottle.
 
“May I?”

Her eyes flicked to him again, giving him a proper once-over.
 
“Sure.”
 
She didn’t turn away from the mirror behind the bar.

Fine
.
 
He reached under the bar and snagged a glass, splashing some of the liquor into it.
 
He took a sip, then coughed.
 
“Fresh, isn’t it?”

A small smile tugged at the edge of her mouth.
 
She was pretty, if you wanted to dial up the grunge.
 
“That’s one word for it.
 
House speciality.”

“I’d hate to taste what they do bad, you know?”
 
Mason pulled out a pack of Treasurers, offering her one.
 
She looked at the pack for a second, then reached out and took one with long fingers, painted black nails.
 
Guitarist’s hands, unless he missed his guess — the nails went with the calluses.
 
The silver of the cigarette caught the light against her black lipstick as she leaned forward to the offered light.

She gave a small sound of pleasure.
 
“That’s a good cigarette.”

Mason lit one for himself.
 
“Yeah.”
 
He breathed the smoke in, then sent the exhale out towards the ceiling.
 
“What do you play?”

“Play?”

Mason watched the cigarette smoke walk on lazy legs upward.
 
“You look like a guitarist.”

“Nothing you’d like,” said the woman, but she was watching him with more interest now.
 
“Nothing straight and even.”

“I don’t think life’s supposed to be straight and even,” said Mason.
 
“I think it’s supposed to be jagged around the edges.”

“Sure,” she said, but something had relaxed in her shoulders.

Still, tough crowd
.
 
“How about them Seahawks, yeah?”

She snorted.
 
“Don’t waste your time.”
 
She held the cigarette out from her, the tip pointed upwards against the flat of her hand.
 
“Are these — are these silver?
 
Did you just light me up a silver filter?”

Mason took another drag, the ember tip of the Treasurer flaring briefly.
 
“What do you mean, don’t waste my time?”

She thought for a few moments, then took another pull from her cigarette.
 
“Well, it’s one of two things.”

Mason nodded.
 
“Sure.
 
What two things?”

“Well, more like one thing, with a bonus round.”

A smile tugged at his mouth.
 
“Bonus round?”

“Sure.
 
You came here, looking for someone.”

Mason nodded.
 
“That’s a fair guess.
 
It’s 4:30 in the morning.
 
Although I might have come in just to get out of the rain.”

“I heard you drive up.”
 
She tapped some ash directly onto the bar.
 
“So you came to see someone.”

“Ok.”
 
Mason sipped his drink again.
 
“I came to see someone.
 
I figure you’re here so you won’t see someone.”

“Very perceptive,” she said.
 
“And yet, here you are.”

He smiled again.
 
“It’s not me.”

“It’s not an exclusive club,” she said.
 
“I could not want to see you
and
someone else.”
 
But she was smiling now, looking down at her hands.

“Sounds like you’ve got a list.”

“I’ve got a list,” she agreed.
 
“Anyway.
 
He’s not here.”

“The guy you don’t want to see?”

“No.
 
The guy
you
want to see.”
 
She frowned.
 
“This is more confusing after a few drinks than I thought it’d be.”

“How do you know it’s not you?”
 
Mason watched her.

She glanced at him again, then turned back to the mirror.
 
“It’s not me.
 
I’m the bonus round.
 
And you’re so not my type.”

“I should be offended.”
 
Mason tapped his own Treasurer against the bar.
 
“But I’m not.
 
Name’s Mason.”

Those eyes watched him, the black lipstick pulling into an answering grin.
 
“Good to meet you, Mason.
 
He’s not here.”

“You said that before.
 
Who’s not here?”

“Bernie.”

“Ah.”
 
Mason refilled his glass, then tipped the bottle towards her.

She nodded, snagging it with a free hand, taking another pull.
 
“‘Ah,’ for sure.”

“How do you know I’m here for Bernie?”

“Because he’s an asshole.”

“Fair enough.”
 
Mason thought that one through.
 
“You work for him though, right?”

“Everyone’s boss is an asshole.”

“Mine’s not.”

“Yeah.
 
Yeah he is.”
 
She looked at him again briefly.
 
“Or you’re the luckiest man in the world.”

“Mason.”
 
Carter sounded bored.
 
“She’s an illegal, Mason.”

“What?
 
Jesus, Carter.
 
You’re like the world’s giant cock-blocking overlord, aren’t you?”

“Just thought you should know.
 
I get three heat signatures in the room, and you’re the only one with an uplink.”

“Why don’t you take the rest of the night off?”
 
Mason swirled the liquor in his glass.
 
“Jesus.”

“What?”
 
She looked at him, her tongue licking black lipstick.
 
“You don’t look the religious type.”

“It’s — never mind.”
 
Mason stood up.
 
“Hey.
 
You didn’t tell me your—”

A door at the back of the room kicked open, and a man strode in.
 
He was tall and thin, black hair streaming behind him.
 
He stopped dead when he saw Mason.
 
Mason’s optics adjusted for the gloom, picking out the widening of the man’s eyes.
 
Surprised, are you?

“Who the hell are you?”
 
The man started forward again, his long legs taking him to the bar.
 
“We’re closed, asshole.”

Mason put his hand out.
 
“Mason Floyd.”
 
He tried on a smile to match it.
 
“I’m an acquisitions specialist.”

The man ignored Mason’s hand.
 
“Well you can acquire yourself a way out of here.
 
I said we’re closed.”

Mason’s HUD was already working through a biometrics match, but neither of these two came up on the search.
 
Good news, neither of them was Bernie Eckers.
 
He put his hand back at his side.
 
“Sure.
 
Say, have you seen—”

“We haven’t seen anyone.
 
Fuck off, company man.
 
Your kind aren’t welcome around here.”
 
The newcomer grabbed the woman’s arm.
 
“Come on, babe.
 
Let’s go.”