“Seriously, I should find a toilet now,” Friday said, still holding himself around the midsection. “Imagine if I could take a toilet selfie here, in Instaphoto’s and Socialite’s headquarters! Posting a photo to a social network from within the headquarters of that social network. Super meta, on an artistic basis. I bet it’d get a billion likes.”
And this was my only backup.
59.
“Looks like you survived,” Mendelsohn said, hurrying up to greet us as we approached the limo. Friday had found his bathroom and, presumably, posted his bathroom selfie. I sure as hell wasn’t going to confirm it.
“With nothing but a little arm numbness and a hell of a lot of bruising to the midsection, surprisingly,” I said, glancing at Mendelsohn. He seemed just a little relieved, and rushed to open the door for us both.
“I suffered a lot more for this victory,” Friday said, hurling himself into the limo so hard it shook. “But I got an audience to make myself heard with Jaime Chapman, so I feel like it was worth suffering. Suffering is temporary, after all, but greatness—well, that’s forever.”
“Suffering does not have to be temporary,” I said, sliding into the limo and plopping down on the back seat. “It can be a continuous state. See also, ‘despair,’ or ‘Coldplay, listeners to.’”
“That’s really harsh,” Friday said. “I know it’s unpopular sentiment, but I like Coldplay. And Nickelback. I’m just going to put that out there, because it’s always the next shitty thing people say when they’re acting like serious critics and dissing music other people enjoy.”
“Why don’t you make it a trifecta and share your feelings about Taylor Swift?” I asked, slumping back against the seat, careful not to disturb my wounded arm.
“I liked her earlier work,” Friday said, affecting a very serious tone. “Her self-titled debut album had a very fresh sound and a sweet earnestness to it. The follow-up, Fearless, includes some real classics like the title track, Love Story and Shoulda Said No, all of which I totally heart. Her third album went a little poppy but stayed true to her roots and kept it close to the heart with the instant-classic Mean. The fourth and fifth albums, Red and 1987, were like an evolution followed by a revolution, but I’m not really sure what to make of her artistic intentions surrounding her most recent release, Reputation.” He paused, suddenly pensive. “Also, I don’t really like the first single for some reason, Look What You Made Me Do. It just hits my ears wrong.” He looked right at me. “You know what I mean?”
I blinked a few times at his oddly scholarly analysis of the collected works of Taylor Swift. “Uhm. Sort of.” All I could think was that this was a guy who was preparing to release a single titled Droppin’ Deuces, and my brain did not feel prepared on any level to accept him as a serious critic or artist.
Yet here he was, saying weird shit that bordered on reflective analysis. Even as big as a Honda Odyssey, Friday was still occasionally a surprise.
“I can tell you’ve really put some thought into that,” Mendelsohn said. He was clearly almost as dumbstruck as I was by what had just come out of Friday’s mouth.
The next sentence cleared it all up for us, though. “Come on, guys,” Friday said. “If you’re looking at becoming one of the hugest superstars in the business, how can you not take a serious look at the trends over the last few years, and the staying power of a star like Taylor Swift? I mean, really, that’s like elementary school studies for someone who wants to be in the music biz.”
I looked at Mendelsohn; he looked back at me. This was awkward, because what did you say to follow that up? “So, what actually happened in there?” Mendelsohn asked, probably sparing us from a deeper critique of Taylor Swift’s career.
“Veronika and a crew of meta-powered mercs, apparently hired by the Inquest CEOs, showed up mid-fight,” I said. “They weren’t intending to help us, because apparently their job was to kill or possibly stop Grendel, but they ended up being a nice distraction at a needed moment.”
“Well, that’s good,” Mendelsohn said amiably.
“Except now Veronika is super pissed at us,” Friday said. “I think she’s really serious about vengeance. And you know how these lesbians hold grudges.”
Mendelsohn and I both gawked at him. Mendelsohn got the obvious question out first, and more politely than I would have: “How...exactly does a lesbian grudge differ from that of anyone else?”
“Because they have not been satisfied by a man, their anger is prodigious and unquenchable,” Friday said matter-of-factly. Except he was not speaking anything approaching an established fact.
“Ermagerd,” I said, because I really didn’t have any words other than that.
“That’s really offensive,” Mendelsohn said.
“Why are you offended by that?” Friday asked. “Are you a lesbian?”
“You don’t have to be a lesbian to be offended by a blatantly defamatory statement like that,” Mendelsohn said. “Especially one which has no basis in reality.”
Friday waved a hand at him like swatting a bothersome fly. “This is just common knowledge. Everyone knows that lesbians are angry.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” I said. “Nor do I think most people even believe that.”
“Well I can’t help that they want to ignore science,” Friday said.
“Okay, well, I don’t think there’s a lot of point in arguing with Banky Edwards,” I said. “Suffice to say that Veronika is upset not because she’s a lesbian but because Pastor Phelps here knocked her unconscious with a chair to the face.”
“That was an accident,” Friday said. “I couldn’t see her in the fog. Her shadow looked like Grendel.”
“I wouldn’t tell her that when next we meet,” I said, “because I don’t think mistaking her for a giant yellow monster, even in fog, is going to make her less mad at you.”
“I need to ask her about this lesbian anger thing,” Friday said. “I’m betting she’s going to back me up on this. Then you’re all going to be so embarrassed.”
I sighed. “If you share your ‘unifying field theory of lesbian anger’ with Veronika, I’m pretty sure she’s going to take your balls as trophies.”
Friday just nodded. “Which will totally confirm the theory. It’s science.”
“This is not what science actually looks like.” Mendelsohn was just shaking his head. “It’s a sample size of one, no control group—this is what you would call anecdotal evidence. And also justified, whatever she does to you.” Mendelsohn grimaced. “I’d be careful where you air these ‘theories’ of yours.”
“Yeah, sure,” Friday said, taking out his phone. Conversation over, I guess. “Whatever.”
“What happened to Grendel?” Mendelsohn asked, settling back in his seat and crossing his legs.
“I ripped his arm off and used it to disembowel him,” I said, about as casually as I could given the content of the message I was delivering.
Mendelsohn, to his credit, took it almost in stride, just a hint of eyebrow raising. “Oh. Well, that’s good, I guess? Given what he’s done thus far?”
“It’d have been better if he died,” I said. “He got away, though. Left a trail of blood as he fled, though, so maybe on the bright side, we’ll get something from that.”
Mendelsohn nodded. “Nothing on his motives, though?”
I shook my head. “Not much. His target was some sort of R&D group inside the Socialite HQ, I guess?” I shrugged. “Chapman wasn’t too keen on sharing what they had cooking in there, though he listed two examples before he closed down: ‘advanced algorithmic improvements’ and AI.”
Mendelsohn’s face creased in a complete frown. “He wouldn’t give you the specifics, but he told you that? That’s not nothing.”
“I think he was caught by surprise at the target, at first,” I said. “He ended up being more candid with me than he might have if I hadn’t caught him flatfooted about that being what Grendel was after. He sure clammed up later.” Now it was my tur
n to make a face. “You were right: the consensus thinking among his smart set is that I’m an uneducated moron. Which is maybe why he shared those first two things with me—why hold back in front of an idiot who thinks ‘AI’ probably stands for ‘Anal Insertion’ or something similarly frivolous?”
“There’s nothing frivolous or fun about entering through an exit,” Friday said, looking up from tapping on his phone. “You don’t drive on a one-way street. It’s dangerous. Deadly, even. That’s science, too.”
“You are just full of the most interesting quaint notions,” I said. “Please go back to your text message or whatever you’re up to. I promise I’ll wake you if anything important happens.”
Friday grunted and went back to whatever he was doing.
Mendelsohn looked at me a little pityingly, which I don’t think Friday caught. “This picture is getting more interesting the longer that you dig at what this Grendel wants. I mean, the rate at which we’re seeing diverse objectives for him crop up makes it infinitely more complex to solve, but still...fascinating.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Mr. Spock,” I said. “Care to distill any of these ‘complex thoughts’ into a working theory of what he’s actually after?”
Mendelsohn’s eyes went wide, like he was trying to compute it. “Well, I had a theory that he was, indeed, working on pieces of a learning AI that could be paired with robotic technology.” He ticked off points on his fingers. “Good, solid servers from our van in San Fran, the algorithm from QuantiFIE up in Queens, robotics from the Inquest affiliate in Chicago. Now we go off the rails a bit here on the last two ‘heists,’ mainly because we don’t know exactly what he got from Inquest, nor what his target was here, but still...”
“What would you do with a robot with AI?” I asked.
“This is what I don’t understand,” Mendelsohn said. “You’re Grendel. Eight, ten feet tall, nearly invincible. Why would you need a robot with AI?”
“What does anyone need a robot with AI for?” I asked.
“There are many applications, actually,” Mendelsohn said. “I mean, long-term, robotics paired with a solid, base-level AI could be used to automate countless tasks, dangerous or monotonous ones, that humans do on a regular basis. Mining. Space exploration. Manufacturing work. There’s real value in assembling the pieces of what Grendel appears to be cobbling together, at least under this theory.” He scratched his chin. “But there’s holes in it, too. Why bother? If you’re Grendel.”
“Clearly he’s building an army,” Friday said, unprompted, and without looking up from his phone. “An unstoppable army of robots to be his friends and help him conquer the world. Like Ultron.”
“That’s a little grandiose,” I said. “Even for a nerd like Grendel.”
Mendelsohn sat up a little. “That’s an interesting supposition. What makes you think he’s a nerd?”
I felt a little poleaxed with that one, blinked a couple times. “Well...I talked with him before our fight began. I guess maybe that’s maybe the impression I walked away with. I mean, his thing after he gets these powers is to break into tech companies and raid some seriously deep tech items. To me, that suggests he’s got a level of understanding and knowhow for this branch of technology that’s above average, or at least greatly above the layman’s average. Ergo, he’s at least a little bit of a geek.”
“Well reasoned, I think,” Mendelsohn said, sinking into thought.
“Also, there’s another thing that’s leading me to that conclusion,” I said, finally finding a way to put words to a thought that had been brewing in my mind, all part of the largely unspoken investigative soup that seemed to be churned in my guts, leading me in whatever direction I typically went. “The revenge motive is real. This is a personal thing for him. Whatever stake Grendel has in this, he’s not just a hired hand, like Veronika.” I took a breath, steadying myself. “Someone in this play has truly wronged him, at least in his mind.”
“Who do you think it is?” Mendelsohn asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “But whoever it is, they either have no idea it’s coming, or they must be hella powerful.”
“Interesting thread,” Mendelsohn said, smiling just slyly enough that I knew he had a pretty solid idea of how I was coming to that conclusion. Then he asked, testing me: “Why do you think that?”
“Because they’d have to be, to justify all the effort he’s going through,” I said, putting to words a dark thought, with an even more frightening implication. “Powerful enough that a nearly indestructible monster doesn’t want to come at them head on.” And that thought left me with a little bit more chill in my bones as I wondered just who could be powerful enough to scare Grendel off.
60.
Friday
Ok u guys, Friday typed, got a srs issue that needs an answer! I say lesbians are angrier than ur straight lady who gets regularly laid! which is y gay dudes are the happiest men (duh, it’s science—gay means happy) they r getting much needed vitamin D in their lives!! And don’t give me that anti-science BS about plastic artificial dongs—we all know all natural and organic is the only healthy way to do things!!! and that includes the real D!!!!!!!!
He surveyed the post for only a moment before hashtagging it with the usuals and hitting the SHARE button.
Boom. That’d keep his audience engaged. Probably not go viral, though, with such a simple and unassuming question. He’d have to find another way to keep pushing the boundaries on that subject.
61.
Veronika
“These aren’t the results I’m paying you for,” Berniece Adams said, head down, eyes up, brow furrowed so that she looked a little like a pissed-off hedgehog glaring out of her hole.
Veronika had dealt with scarier bitches in her time, though, so she just took it in stride. “I didn’t go in there seeking to get planted in the face by Sienna Nealon’s sidekick, either, but I did, and here we are.”
“I knew that guy was an idiot from the second I laid eyes on him,” Berniece said, blowing air through colorless lips. “You shouldn’t let him get in your way.”
Veronika thought about picking up the chair in front of Berniece’s desk and tossing it at her just to see how well she could dodge it, even without the steamy fog in the Socialite auditorium, but that was probably a little over the line.
Berniece caught her looking, though, and broke into a grin. Leaning forward, putting her elbows on her desk, she said, “Do it. Please.”
Veronika stared at the chair, then back to Berniece. “Why? You got a death wish?”
Berniece just grinned. “Do it.”
Veronika started to. She picked up the chair in one hand, lifted it, brandished it. Then she let it slide back down. “You’re paying me to protect you. I’m not killing you. It’s the opposite of what I’m paid to do.”
Berniece’s eyes narrowed in consideration. “Hollister. If I die in the next few minutes, you make sure Veronika gets paid for an entire year. Hell, two years. Hol? You hear me?”
Hollister kept his head down, but sort of spasmed a couple times where he was sitting. Didn’t turn around, though. “Keep paying her even after she kills you. Got it.”
Berniece just smiled. “There you go. Job security. Now...throw it at me. Like you mean it.”
I do mean it, Veronika thought, but she didn’t say it. Instead she grabbed the chair, lifted it up—
And lobbed it at Berniece. Not too hard. It floated through the air like an oversized—
Berniece snatched it out of the air one-handed and shot it back at Veronika—
Veronika barely dodged out of the way in time. The chair hit the far wall and disintegrated into a shower of wood and cloth, like it had never been a cohesive object at all.
“Well, well,” Kristina said, looking up from her nails. No one had said a word this whole time, but even Phinneus had a raised eyebrow. Chase, too, from where she stood by Hollister. Mostly because in their months of guarding these tw
o, there hadn’t even been a hint that—
“You’re a meta,” Veronika said, peeling herself off the carpet and giving her pants a good brush down. Between this and the incident in the auditorium, they needed a serious dry cleaning. “All this time?”
“Duh,” Berniece said, smirking. “And not just me.” She picked up a paperweight off the desk and heaved it at the back of Hollister’s head—
Before Chase could cry out and throw herself in front of it, Hollister turned and snatched it out of the air with a perfect catch. He set it gently upon his work bench, then went back to whatever he was doing, mumbling something to himself the entire time.
“What the hell do you need us for, then?” Chase asked, her lightsaber hand’s glow already fading back into her sleeve.
“That’s a question I’m asking myself after today,” Berniece said, smile frozen in place. She locked eyes with Veronika. “So...if you want that money I just mentioned, maybe stop dicking around? Because I’m not going to just sit here forever and take your bullshit in stride.” She tapped the desk with a perfectly manicured nail. “I want this job done. I want that thing dead. I want anyone who gets in your way to get steamrolled out of it.” She sat back. “You hearing me?”
Veronika just nodded. To hell with Nealon, anyway. She owed as much loyalty to Sienna as Sienna had showed her at this point. “I’ll get it done,” she said. Then she fed a glance around the room, making sure—they were all nodding, even Chase. “We’ll get it done. Whatever it takes.”
62.
Sienna
Wittman Capital was buzzing when Mendelsohn and I popped in. Friday had asked us to drop him at the hotel, which I was only too happy to do. He was still hunched over, anyway, so I doubted his utility in a fight at the moment.
Plus, I’d last seen Grendel with his own arm stuffed into his guts. God willing, the fighting portion of our day was over.
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