Coil

by Ren Warom

  Spying Stark’s long black car nosing through the traffic, he tosses his cigarette into the snow and dodges between cars to knock on the window, desperate to be in the warm. The door swings open, and Bone jumps in sideways to keep from putting pressure on the tattoo.

  “So,” he says. “Where’re we going?”

  Stark presses a button and shouts to Tal, “Get us out of this godawful jam.” Then he turns to Bone, his face about as thunderous as Bone’s ever seen it. “Your call came during my meeting,” he says.

  “Yeah? You said it was okay.”

  A jolt of annoyance crosses Stark’s thunderous face like a lightning bolt. “I know, and it was. That’s not the fucking problem.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “Burton refused my request to hit GyreTech for a list of personnel.”

  Bone’s jaw drops open. “What?”

  “Yep. Point blank.”

  “You argue?”

  “Of course, I argued! We got into a bit of a shouting match, truth be told.”

  “Don’t tell me you got fired?” Bone’s aghast.

  “Worse. I got given the reason for his refusal.”

  “Oh?”

  They’re both pressed back into the soft leather upholstery as Tal spots his opening and shoots off down through an underpass. Stark shifts to peer out the window as they emerge from the underpass onto a five-lane freeway rising upwards through Lower Mace’s densely packed skyline, the car reflecting in mirrored glass. He nods satisfaction and turns back to Bone.

  “It’s about GyreTech,” he says, and his gaze becomes solemn. “If I find you knew this, I’m going to be pissed.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I know unless you tell me.”

  Stark nods, accepting that as a given. “GyreTech’s not what it seems,” he says heavily. “I thought the same as everyone else, that it was a private corporation owned by some Spires business cartel because that’s how it publicises itself. It’s not. It’s fucking gang owned. The Establishment owns it.” He’s watching Bone closely for his response, but Bone keeps his face carefully blank. “GyreTech owns the mortuary network, the research lab networks. Hell, it owns almost all healthcare practices, hospitals, and clinics in the Spires, too.

  “If it’s just a front for the Establishment, that means it also owns the fucking Zone. So, the Establishment not only controls modification, they have a fuckload of political sway over anything to do with mods. According to Burton, they’ve used it to tie up the Notary, the CO, and the military in a series of highly unattractive knots over the past twenty or so years, since Spaz took over, and apparently this means that Burton hasn’t the authority to demand jack shit from them. Hence my request being bombed to oblivion.” Stark’s black eyes bore into Bone’s. “Did you know any of this?”

  Bone licks his lips. “Okay,” he says. “I know who my bosses are. Of course, I do.”

  “Of course,” Stark replies, and his voice is hard. Unforgiving.

  “But,” says Bone, holding up a hand, “I’m like every other employee, Stark. I signed a non-disclosure, and it being gang, the terms are my silence or my life. Understand?”

  Stark considers this a moment and then inclines his head. “Can’t judge you for that. But you could’ve mentioned it when I said I wanted to get the personnel list.”

  Bone shakes his head. “No, I couldn’t. That would be exposing privileged information, and that would constitute a breaking of my silence. But honestly, I assumed the CO could get a court order, circumstances being what they are.”

  “Nope.”

  “So, what do you plan to do?”

  Stark offers Bone an unpleasant grin. “Shortly after Burton finished dragging me over the coals, I recalled you telling me about the spirals. About Spaz having you deal with them exclusively?” He stops there and looks expectant.

  Bone lets out an incredulous shout of laughter and exclaims, “Oh, fucking hell, no! You cannot roll on in there and ask Spaz about his business.”

  Stark’s face twitches. “Oh, really?” He leans right in towards Bone, implacable. “Way I see it is this, Spaz was in charge of GyreTech when that lab was operational, and some serious shit went off there. It was trashed. I’m betting Rope was involved, and Spaz would’ve had reports detailing the incident.” Fury flashes in Stark’s black eyes. “Now since these killings began, the gangs’ve let Rope run loose all over the fucking city, when usually they’d mop that shit up straight off. And don’t feed me any bullshit about avoiding the Notary, because he has them over a fucking barrel. I’m thinking more in terms of them not-so-subtly nudging us in Rope’s direction, when he’s one hundred percent their problem. I mean, come on, all that tagging shit went on right under Spaz’s nose in the Boreholes. You know he’d have known about that.”

  “I do.”

  “He’s had you dealing personally with these spirals, which he must know connect to the lab. Keeping those off record reports bare bones, too, I presume?” Bone nods and Stark continues, his voice almost a growl, “Your good friend knows who our killer is, but he’s chosen to play ignorant. Left us to clean up his mess. He knows information that could help us, too, I guarantee it, and he’s kept it to himself. That does not fly with me. Not at all. So, whether it gets me gutted and hung up by my toes or not, I’m going to get some answers from him.”

  The beginnings of one hell of a tension headache swell behind Bone’s forehead. He wants to tell Tal to stop the car right there, so he can get out, walk away, and never look back. Trouble is, the gangs distancing themselves from this killer’s activities is something they’ve wondered about from the start, and now the situation is even more confusing because this is GyreTech business, therefore very clearly Establishment business. Spaz makes a point of dealing with Establishment business with brutal exactitude, so why is he choosing to allow this killer free rein until the CO can catch him? It’s so far from usual gang policy, from Spaz’s personal code, that it borders on the unbelievable. Rope should be long since dead. Executed. Buried somewhere he can never be found. So, he’s still alive for a reason, and Bone has to know it. Moreover, now that they know to look for spirals, the Buzz Boys may find survivors. Both those victims and the ones they’ve been too late to save deserve justice.

  “I have no desire to witness your hideous demise,” Bone says. “But I agree. He has to be asked, even if he chooses to continue to hold out on us. And he probably will.”

  “You think?”

  Bone nods. “I don’t think we’ll get jack shit.” He smiles thinly. “But do me a favour, anyway.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Try and keep it level, Stark. Don’t aim to provoke.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Stark says with a twisted grin.

  Bone’s headache ramps up by several degrees. He groans, dropping his head into his palms. “This is not,” he says with dark presentiment, “going to end prettily.”

  Stark barks out a laugh and claps a meaty hand onto Bone’s back, making him yelp as it catches the tattoo square on. “So let’s go face certain evisceration with smiles on our faces.”

  “If I were you,” Bone responds drily, knowing he won’t face Spaz’s wrath in the same way as Stark and not liking it at all, “I’d go with hysterical hand wringing and frantic clenching of the anus.” He doesn’t share Stark’s amusement. He knows Spaz too well. But he settles back and tries not to panic as Stark confidently outlines their strategy.

  At the Zone, they drive through the gate with little delay, thanks to Bone’s presence, arriving at Snatch far too soon for his comfort. Spaz doesn’t take kindly to the law in his territory, or to awkward questions, and both together are likely to provoke one hell of an unpleasant response. Fighting intense reluctance, Bone leads Stark into the mindless roar of a live band. From the frenzied pulse of drum and guitar and the underlying stridence of synths, it’s some form of Black Metal. Sounds like the sort of noise some of his more deconstructed corpses might make in the moments be
tween whole alive and ripped to fuck dead. He wonders if he’ll see Stark making the same noise and sincerely hopes not.

  Spaz is at the bar, serving. He does no more than raise a brow at Stark, and then gifts Bone a large, toothy grin. “Pork roast? How thoughtful.”

  Bone chuckles. “My apologies, Spaz, but we need to talk. Out the range of ear holes not our own.”

  Spaz treats them to the kind of stare that’s made gang bosses almost as large as Burneo run off whimpering into the night. The two meet it, unflinching. Bone’s got his own steel, he knows how to conduct himself here, and Stark just doesn’t give a shit. A long, slow smile takes over Spaz’s face, his liquid tattoos glistening and seeming to writhe with a life of their own. He jerks his head towards a small door at the end of the bar, black and unassuming.

  “Come with me.”

  He leads them to a conference room full of sleek woods and luxurious fabrics. Only the brushed steel and glass screens on the walls suggest the doubtless vast array of cutting edge tech hidden in the luxury. It’s so at odds to Snatch, it borders on the ridiculous, and yet seems to fit, as though it makes perfect sense to have all this opulence hidden behind a façade of visceral metal savagery.

  Bone lets out a low whistle. “You hide this in here?”

  “No need to hide anything,” Spaz answers, a thread of humour in his voice. “Take a seat.” He fetches a decanter of whisky and three chunky quartz glasses, pouring with his usual panache. “You’ll have to go bareback on this malt, Bone-Man. There’s no force on earth that could make me destroy it by slugging in gas.”

  Taking an almost reverent sip, Stark cracks out, “He’s an alcoholic, not a philistine.”

  Bone raises his glass. “Fuckin A,” he says, and slugs back a good mouthful.

  Spaz throws himself into a chair, long legs thumping up on the table. Metal chimes through the room as his boot buckles jangle together. “So,” he says. “Bone, my friend. Talk.”

  Bone sends a warning to rebellious guts and gets down to business. “I need to know why it is I’ve been asked to deal with those spiral corpses off record.”

  “Now there’s a question,” Spaz murmurs. His face is expressionless, but Bone gets the distinct feeling he’s suddenly listening very hard. “Might you perhaps elaborate?”

  Bone swallows another fortifying shot of whisky. “You may recall my asking what the tag meant once or twice. Whether or not it might be a new gang.”

  “I do.”

  “You’re probably aware of this case I’m working on, too.”

  “The Rope killer,” comes the terse reply.

  “Exactly. Now, I know you keep a track of official streams, so you probably already know we discovered the killer’s been using those spirals to mark the locations of victims.”

  Spaz’s eyes are hooded, swallowing secrets. “Ah,” he says with dark, heavy amusement. “You think my reason for insisting the spiral corpses are dealt with privately is because I know who your killer is? You think I’m letting him run loose in my city?”

  “We think it’s a distinct possibility, yes,” says Bone, choosing his words with care. “Although that would be contrary to gang policy maintained over the past few decades, and to your personal code as I’ve come to understand it.”

  Spaz’s aura thickens with menace. “That’s quite the assumption.”

  “It is,” Bone acknowledges. “Thing is, we’re up against something truly fucking terrible here, and time’s running out for the people he’s targeted. His victims. We haven’t time to tread carefully. These conclusions couldn’t be left unexplored.”

  Spaz regards Bone, almost as if trying to read beneath his surface. Then he nods. “Fair enough. I’m aware the spirals aren’t connected to the formation of a new gang, but I’ve had to act as if they are.” He gives an elegant shrug. “I’m sure you gentlemen are aware of the current, delicate balance in the Spires. Maintaining that balance is my foremost concern, above and beyond any other.” Spaz drains his glass and places it down on the table. “Is that all?”

  “Is that why this killer’s been left to act without challenge?”

  Bone watches Spaz roll the question through his mind because it’s illogical. Purposefully so. Gangs don’t challenge. They don’t need to. They merely remove that which needs removing. The real question here is, “Why do they think Rope doesn’t need removing?” and Spaz would expect to be asked that, but something’s off in his responses and Bone needs to figure out why. He’s been nowhere near as aggressive as Bone expected, not to mention, he actually gave an answer, however misleading. Bone’s got the feeling Spaz is humouring them in some way, hoping to be rid of them. That doesn’t mean he won’t resort to violence. He appears entirely relaxed, at ease, but Bone isn’t fooled, he can feel the levels of threat in the room rising by the second.

  “You’re still assuming I’m aware of this killer’s identity and therefore able to order an elimination.” Spaz’s reply is softly spoken, but there’s zero elastic in it.

  “Are you?”

  “No. Was that all you needed?”

  Bone grits his teeth. Spaz is lying. He’s not even trying to hide it. Something’s definitely off. It’s not just annoyance that they’re here asking questions they shouldn’t be either. Spaz is playing dumb on purpose, meaning there’s a subtext he and Stark are unaware of. This case may be more complicated, more dangerous, than he or Stark realised. Bone wonders if Stark’s clocked to that yet. Knowing him, he has and doesn’t give a shit. He watches uneasily as Stark leans forward towards Spaz, who flashes a needling sort of smile at him. Sharp, vicious, and filled with poison.

  “Careful, pork,” Spaz says gently. “You’re on borrowed rep here.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Stark replies. “But I’m way beyond the valley of give a shit, brother.”

  Something a little like respect flickers so briefly in Spaz’s stare, it could be mistaken for just about anything else. “Then speak,” he says.

  Stark’s gaze hardens to obsidian black, calculating and precise. “Took my team hunting down the sewers recently,” he says, his casual tone at odds with those stony eyes. “Bone here came with us. Imagine our surprise when we come across a sealed lab owned by your good selves here at GyreTech.” He says the name pointedly, letting Spaz know he knows, and Bone nearly dies right there. “That lab had the mark of a spiral on the door, the spiral used by our killer to mark his scenes. The killer whose identity you claim to be unaware of.”

  The air in the room becomes thick enough to suffocate. Spaz’s face slips from genial but guarded to something lethal. Foreign. There’s a flatness to it, indicating a dearth of anything merciful. This is who Spaz is behind the amiable face he presents as camouflage. Bone’s seen it before. Those few times he has, someone has died, often quite horrifically, and so swiftly he’s barely had time to flinch. With great deliberation, Spaz places his feet back squarely on the floor and regards Stark silently for a long, drawn-out moment. His eyes are drills, burrowing through lens and optic nerve, into soft brain tissue, the meat of Stark. He looks hungry.

  “And have you shared this extraordinary discovery with anyone up at Central?” Spaz’s voice is too soft, devoid of inflection or emotion, and Stark shifts, going into flight mode, his eyes wary. Bone almost feels sorry for him.

  “Only my boss,” Stark says, refusing to break Spaz’s stare, although he’s sweating. Bone can see it on his brow. “One of my team, someone I hold very dear, whose loss I will not countenance, was taken by this killer you’re choosing to ignore. Following her trail led us to something unexpected, and so I was forced to tell my boss about what we’d seen. Otherwise I’d have likely kept it to myself.”

  Spaz’s piercings and tattoos glint under the lights. They make him appear demonic, composed of steel, but some of the danger recedes and Bone understands that this was a good answer. “Fortunately for you, I trust Burton,” Spaz tells Stark lightly. “He knows how to behave. Now, what’s your interest in this la
b you came across? Because I’m certain you’re not here to make any further unfounded accusations.” Despite the polite, measured tones, the threat is clearly a promise.

  “I wanted a personnel list,” Stark says carefully, finally putting his anger behind him and showing proper respect. “I made the request to my boss, but he made it clear he’s not permitted access to GyreTech files. Thing is, we know the killer used to work at that lab. All the evidence points to that conclusion. But without any idea who worked there, that knowledge is useless.”

  Easing back into his chair and stretching long legs encased in ragged grey to their full length, Spaz says, “I’m curious. Why not simply continue to pursue Aron? I can assure you, he’ll be of more use than any list of personnel from GyreTech’s lab.”

  Stark jumps at the use of that name, and Bone understands that this is who Burneo must have been. Why on earth is Spaz letting Stark see how much he knows of his real history? Because that’s what Burneo is, history Stark has buried and left far behind come back to haunt him, and now here’s Spaz using it to pry under Stark’s skin. What the hell is going on here?

  “I’m not ruling anything out, but we have reason to believe our killer is onto Aro …” Stark catches himself and starts again. “We believe he’s onto Burneo’s willingness to cooperate. I don’t like being at a disadvantage, and at the moment, that is precisely what I am, in every way.”

  Spaz grins. There’s no humour in it, just teeth and intent. “Is that so?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Resting his elbows on the table, Spaz says deliberately, “The personnel list from that lab would not provide the advantage you are looking for, even if I were willing to share it. And I’m not. Not yet.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Stark snaps.