Upgrade (22 page)

“Just Reed and Metatech?” Mason frowned.
 
The show should be bigger
.

“Wait, what?
 
There’s like twenty cars coming.
 
Each.
 
You wanted more?”

“I expected more.
 
For this level of tech.”

“You’re welcome,” she said.

“What?”

“I… fiddled a few things.”

“You—”
 
Mason looked down into the room again, then focused on the map again.
 
“Where did you send them?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

“Different bar.”

“Same city?”

“Maybe,” she said.
 
“You do your job, I’ll do mine.”

Mason flicked the locks on the case, then let a breath out.
 
“Thanks.”

“You still get Reed and Metatech,” said Carter.
 
“They’ve got good deckers in there.
 
Couldn’t cut ‘em out.
 
Not all of them.”

The case opened in front of Mason, the rain falling in, greedy to get into the corners.
 
He shrank the map back to the corner of his overlay, keeping a slice of his attention on it.
 
“What the…”

“What?” said Carter.

“That icon.
 
Is that
me?
”
 
He brought up the section of the map where
The Hole
was, a marker on the roof.
 
An old image was etched in grey over the top.
 
“It doesn’t look like me.”

“You don’t look like much at the moment,” said Carter.
 
“You’re wearing armor, so I needed to be creative.”

Mason pulled the two sub machine guns out of the case — subs were good for close work — putting them on the roof in front of him.
 
“Who is it?
 
I don’t recognize him as one of ours.”

Carter laughed.
 
“That’s not surprising,” she said.
 
“It’s Gene Kelly.”

“Gene who?
 
Who’s Gene Kelly?”
 
Mason did a quick flick through the Federate’s corporate directory.
 
“I get a Gene Kelly in Policy.
 
It’s a chick, though.”

“Look it up,” said Carter.

Mason pulled the rifle out of the case, checking the action.
 
It gave off a soft whine as if it were eager to be put to use.
 
He sighted along the barrel, then put it on the roof next to the subs.
 
Mason picked one up, switching it on.
 
It gave a brief, almost subsonic rumble, and the icons along the top of the barrel lit red, cycling to green.
 
The overlay coughed up data on Gene Kelly while he worked.
 
“He was a dancer.
 
Of course.”

“I thought you’d appreciate it,” said Carter.
 
“Hey.
 
Game’s on.
 
Through the front.
 
I get groups fanning down the side of the building towards the rear too.
 
It’s going to get messy in there.”

“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.”

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.

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 across 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?”