Cates 04 - The Terminal State (18 page)

She looked back at me, her eyes murderous little coals. “Don’t you be forgettin’ who
owns
your ass, Avery.”

I nodded. “The Little Man brought me in to run this show. From now on, I’m runnin’ it. You want to pop a vessel in my head, show me who’s boss, do it now, because from this moment forward this is
my
show.”

She stared down at me for a moment, squinting one eye a little more than the other, and for a strange moment I felt like I knew exactly what she was going to say. She was going to smirk, kinking her mouth up in one corner and say,
All right, boyo, if that’s the way y’want it
. I concentrated on the flashing exclamation mark and it expanded in my vision slightly, throbbing there. I wondered what would happen if I went ahead and triggered it. It was strange to finally have some control over my own augments.

“All right, boyo,” she said, smirking. “Play it like that, if y’like.”

Close enough. I kept my eyes on her for a moment, a strange feeling of been there, done that leaking through me.

The Poet made a big show of sniffing the air. “My friends, that’s pungent. And really kind of boring. A pissing contest.”

I glanced at him. Fucking kid. Everything was funny to kids. “All right, Mara,” I said, with my eyes still on Adrian. “We still have a go with your contact here? Guns? Transport?”

Her nostrils flared. “Guns, yes. Intel, yes—though y’seem to have that part covered, huh? Transport—not on your fucking life. There’s no such fucking thing anymore. There are refugee trains still railing out, people herding out before the army drops the hammer. That’s all we got.”

I relaxed slowly. “All right. Last reports the cops had put Londholm ... here.” I touched a flickering building with one finger and it swelled up, expanding to fill the whole virtual space. It was a tall, triangular-shaped building rising from a narrow stump, all bluish glass on one side. “A luxury hotel, the Shannara or some shit like that. Five hundred forty-three rooms, and he’s the only occupant.”

Mara ran her eyes over it, all business. “At least it’s on the fucking coast. Security? ”

“Private, freelance,” I said. “Talent—they say Japanese mercenary, which means—”

“Takahashi,” Mara interrupted.

“Dai Takahashi, yes,” I agreed. There were a dozen or so well-known mercenary outfits, ranging from a half-dozen assholes with a FOR RENT sign on their chests to big-time operators, and Takahashi was the biggest. I’d heard a hundred soldiers, big weaponry, high-class tech. “He’s running out of cash, and there’s a possibility his team will just try to kill him if he can’t pay their wages anymore.”

She snorted. “Like hell. They’ll truss ’im up and sell ’im. Probably already thinkin’ on it, actually.”

I shrugged. “Whatever. The cops aren’t up to date, really, because the whole fucking island is pretty much in rebellion. Local cops told SSF HQ to shit in their hat a few days ago, so no one’s taking orders over there right now.” I gestured and the hotel sank back down as the city rose up again, everything tiny but crisp. “The army’s got control of the mainland, and it looks like they’re going in soon, like within a few days. Most of the civilian population’s gone, with maybe a few thousand people left in the whole goddamn city.”

Mara nodded. “The shit left at the bottom. Silt of the fucking earth,” she muttered, eyes roaming the model. “A few thousand well-armed, starving assholes with prison tats and infected, roughhouse back-alley augments, huh? Shit, even the ones not being paid by Londholm are gonna be gunning for us. It’s gonna be a fucking
gauntlet
.”

I didn’t know what else to say, so I shrugged again. “Yep.”

She squinted. “What’s to stop someone—us, someone else, shit, anyone—from just bombing the building, knock it down and everyone inside? ”

I shook my head and stuck my cigarette back in my mouth. “The cops were all over that. Hong Kong’s got air defense matrices, and so far nothing’s been able to get in—the army’s even given up trying to bomb the place because everything gets shot down—that’s why they’re diving in, get some boots on the pavement and take some installations, open the air up. So you’d have to hump explosives to the site. It’s a pre-Unification building, okay, but it was a complete gut job ten years ago, bringing it up to modern code—earthquake-rated, intrusion-hardened, designed to resist collapse and preserve property—that’d be a
lot
of fucking explosives.” I shrugged. “Nothing for it but to get up close. Do it the old-fashioned way.”

“Guns,” she muttered. “We’re going to need...” She looked back at the Monk sharply. The Monk just sat there smiling. “All right, Avery, what the fuck is this bullshit, then? ”

I winked. “That’s technical support. You ever hear of something called SPS? ”

Her expression clouded up a little. “Sure, sure. Superstes per Scientia.” She shrugged. “Heard of ’em. Bunch of fucking hippie Techies, think the world’s ending, trying to gather data and tech to preserve it, who fucking knows how.” She pointed at the Monk. “It still functioning? ”

I nodded. “It’s a
member
.” I tapped my head. “It doesn’t talk, but it’s still got a brain up here.”

She squinted at it, leaning forward. The Monk just stared back at her, motionless, its creepy little camera eyes like pebbles. “I never liked these fuckin’ dummies. Why’s it here? You lookin’ to keep a pet? ”

I studied her for a moment, wondering how old she’d been when the Electric Church had been “recruiting.” Ten? “She’s
resources
. Courtesy of the cops.”

Mara straightened up and spat on the floor. “So let me get this: The System Pigs have been crackin’ heads trying to bury these SPS freaks for months now ... and suddenly they’re partners? They got a price on your head big enough to fund our retirement, and now you’re acceptin’ help from ’em? ”

It was my turn to shrug. “Wouldn’t be the first time the SSF dug down into the sewer for some help, huh?” I sat forward and pointed my cigarette at her. “Relax, kid. It’s disarmed, mute, and I’ve killed more motherfucking Monks in my time than you can imagine.”

“Relax?” she said, staring at me. “Kid?” She started laughing. “Hell, Cates, you’re half smart. You want a
Monk
starin’ at you while you sleep, fine, fine. But what’s it
for
? ”

I looked down at my hands. “For starters, she hacked me. Jailbroke my Berserker Mode.”

The little flashing exclamation point beat in time with my heart. I remembered the doctor back at the recruiting center telling me that I didn’t want Berserker Mode. Berserker Mode would blow my fuse in three, two if I was particularly unlucky. I didn’t care. I concentrated on the exclamation point again and watched it bloat up. I
wanted
to do it. I wanted to find out what it was like.

Mara raised an eyebrow and looked back at the Monk. “Well, ain’t that impressive. How’d you manage that, then?”

The Monk suddenly moved, pulling its little LED screen from within its coat and holding it up:

THERE IS A VULNERABILITY IN THE EHA AUGMENTATION SYSTEM THAT CAN BE EXPLOITED, RESULTING IN THE SECURITY FLAGS BEING RESET TO 0. THIS HAS THE END RESULT OF GRANTING YOU DIRECT CONTROL OVER YOUR EHA OVERDRIVE SYSTEM.

“Bully,” Mara said, “for fucking you.” She looked back at me, then at the Monk. “And I suppose you broke his anti-frag settings, too, huh? Set the bastard free? ”

There was a hint of violence about her, suddenly, the sense that she might go for her gun or my throat. My HUD suddenly brightened as my augments went through what was becoming a familiar wind-up to action. But the Monk’s response was instant.

THE BIOLOGICAL CESSATION HOOK-INS ARE SECURE AND CANNOT BE DISABLED OR ADJUSTED WITHOUT TERMINATING THE SUBJECT. THIS IS BY DESIGN. ANY ATTEMPT TO FLASH THE SETTINGS OR REMOVE THE TERMINATION THREADS WILL RESULT IN SUBJECT DEATH. HIS ANTI-FRAG SETTINGS ARE PRESERVED.

Mara nodded, and then looked back at me, appraising me for a second. I thought,
She’s wondering if that’s a lie, if the Monk is lying about it. If I’m going to bide my time and make a move and then she’s shit out of luck
.
That’s what
I’d
be thinking
.

After a moment, she nodded. “Okey, Mr. Cates, you’ve got an ace up your sleeve now, huh? Bully for fucking you, too. So, if you’re in charge, what’s next? ”

I flicked my wrist and the map of Hong Kong disappeared. “Get in touch with your guy. Tell him we need some heavy weapons.” I fished in my pocket and tossed her a dented, charred-looking data cube. “Then we figure out how to get near Hong Kong. Then we figure out how to get
into
Hong Kong.” I stretched, raising my hands high above my head and grunting. “Don’t worry about the details. If the universe wants me in Hong Kong, we’ll get into Hong Kong.” I looked at the Poet, who appeared to be practicing his badass poses for the Gunner trading cards I’d been hearing about. “You got an opinion, Adrian? ”

He shook his head. “I am a Gunner,” he said. “Show me someone to be killed, and I’ll speak to it.”

She snorted, popping the cube into her reader with a little difficulty. Her eyes widened. “Heavy weapons—fucking hell, Mr. Cates. What, are we going to take the whole damn city by force? And what the hell is
this
? ” she added, thrusting the reader at me and pointing to my one moment of genius.

I grinned. “That’s a surprise. And we might need every bit of it,” I said, stubbing out my cigarette and reaching for the dregs of my drink. “According to the cops, Londholm implanted the God Augment into himself two days ago.” I raised the shot glass and toasted her. “The man’s a god now.”

We had come down in the world. The train leaving the “station”—which was just a big open space of blasted remnants of walls out of which rusty tracks sprouted like corroded veins—was so packed with people and their possessions it was hard enough to push our way into a car before we even tried to find a place to sit. Our tiny private cabin on the way in seemed like a dream, suddenly, even with the Poet’s body odor and random Psionics attacking us.

The crush of folks trying to get out of the city was unbelievable. These weren’t the dregs, either, these were more or less prosperous-looking folks with some belongings and a soft look about them, getting harder all the time. Where the fuck they thought they were escaping to was beyond me, but I supposed when you started to suspect the army was coming to rain hell down on you for a few weeks straight, anywhere was better. The train had no listed destination; Mara told us that the trains just left, went as far south and east as possible on whatever track was still undamaged, and then put everyone off when it couldn’t go any farther.

After a few minutes of jostling, I got tired of it and pushed my way to one side, where narrow bunks were bolted to the walls. Every bunk had been claimed and people sat cheek to cheek in them, like pigeons. I picked a spot randomly and grinned up at a thin, young man wearing last year’s suit, his coat sleeves a little frayed and his shoes beyond hope. A pretty blond girl sat next to him, clutching his arm; her face was pale and without makeup, but she’d made an effort with her hair. For some reason her energetic DIY hairdo made me hate her, so I kept my eyes on him.

Avery, you’re an awful person, sometimes
, Dolores Salgado suddenly whispered in my head, making me twitch.

“Funny thing, friend,” I said briskly. “My ticket guarantees me a seat, and I don’t seem to have one.”

His nostrils flared.
“Non Inglese,”
he said, a low, fluttery mutter. But he kept his eyes on me, which I gave him credit for. I eyed his hands, the stupid grin still on my face. They were soft and manicured—the man was fleeing the city for his life, but his fingernails were
perfect
. I reached up, took his nose between my forefinger and thumb, and squeezed.

“Friend,” I said. “Would you mind? ”

Immediately, the woman next to him released his arm and began screeching, beating her tiny hands against me. The Poet suddenly enveloped her, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her off the bunk bodily, holding her dangling in front of him as she continued to screech and beat her fists against the air.

“Go for the wife first,” he said as a surprisingly large space opened up around us—I hadn’t thought it physically possible for the people in this train to make any more room. “It is a good rule of thumb. Women are vicious.”

The man put his hands up and made a squeaking noise I took as compliance, so I released him. He grabbed two small leather bags from the bunk and dropped to the floor, expertly intercepting his wife as the Poet released her and she tried to lunge for me. The crowd swelled back into place around us, and the pair disappeared into it, muttering to each other as I pushed Mara up onto the bunk, liking the feel of her weight in my hands. I handed up our one large, heavy duffel bag, and then pulled myself up next to her.

The Poet waved off my hand. “I’ll remain down here,” he said, turning his back on us and rolling his shoulders. “Stand first security watch. You just lost friends, huh? ”

I nodded. I
was
a terrible person. I knew it. Everyone on the train knew it by sight. The Monk, wearing a heavy hood over its gruesome white head, took up a spot next to him. I looked around the bunks. A dozen people stared blankly back at me, with another dozen or so on the lower bunks below us. The bunks were just rough canvas, sagging dangerously under us, about as comfortable as being stabbed in the armpit. I looked down at the Poet for a moment and watched his flickering tattoos, a blur of color around his neck. I was hungry, but otherwise still buzzed with the unnatural energy and lack of pain of my augments. I’d thought the train insufferably hot when we’d first pushed our way in, but sitting on the bunk with Mara I felt fine, cool, and numb.

I wondered if this was what it was like to be a machine. I was halfway there, after all.