Coil

by Ren Warom

  Pressing the button, Stark says to Tal, “We don’t know what we’re walking into here. If anything happens, call out for local backup and then get the hell away to a good distance until it arrives.”

  “Got it, boss.”

  Stark leads the way into Willough Block, pushing Nia behind him as they reach the stairs. Gun raised, he sticks close to the wall, stopping briefly at each level to scout for trouble. The building looks too thin to have so many apartments crammed into it, but Nia knows how deep these buildings go, and even the smallest holes in a place like this cost a bomb to rent. It’s Gyre Central. If you want cheap living in the Spires, there’s only two options: the Outskirts, where war between the gangs and the City rages at full fury, or the Wharf, where you may as well just paint a target on your arse and be done with it, if you’re not gang. There’s the Rat Gulley, too, under Black Frank’s rule, but it’s no place to live if you’re not fond of rats or gang law. Everywhere else, everyone just makes ends meet as best as possible. Near the third landing, Stark slows, tensed for action, freezing as soon as he sees the door.

  Nia peers out from behind his arm. “What is it?”

  He looks down at her and murmurs, “Door’s broken.” He turns a bit and pushes her against the wall. “Stay.” She opens her mouth to protest, but he puts a hand up, his gaze forbidding. “I’ll call you in when I know it’s safe. Far be it for me to protect you from a trauma, if you’re determined to have one.”

  Light on his feet, despite all that brawny mass, Stark moves swiftly across the landing. Tense and enervated, she watches him as he flattens himself to one side and disappears into the room in a movement so soundless and fast, it startles her. She breathes out slowly, trying to calm the pounding of her heart. Time thins and stretches, seconds taking as long as hours to her as she waits in the corridor, her eyes glued to the doorway. Then Stark peers out. His face is a dour mask.

  “Come on,” he says.

  Nia hurries over, struggling to summon her detachment. She needs to concentrate on helping him figure out what’s happened, if anything. Hysteria won’t aid that. Besides which, she doesn’t think Bone’s dead body is in there, Stark would probably give fair warning. She steps into the room and cries out softly in surprise as her feet sink into carpet. Her eyes fly to Stark’s face. He shrugs, raising a hand to sweep at the room in general.

  “Lever’s not lacking,” he says with a rueful grin. “She’s left all this shit unprotected, too. I’ve already sent a map of the Spiral victims to Suge.”

  He’s over at a table filled with an astonishing array of computer equipment, busy on the screen and his phone, transferring streams, but his body is oddly cramped to the side. Nia frowns as she sees why. A long patch of carpet just before the computer has been flattened, the indentation too unusual to be natural. Something very bad happened here. To Bone. Her gut cramping, she moves closer, needing to know what it was he endured and whether he could have survived it. Several droplets of crusted blood surround the flattened patch, and a thin, sticky area darkens the edge nearest the computer. Vomit. Drying now, but soaked right into the carpet. She sees straight away that he threw up whilst on his side, and feels dizzy with relief. That probably saved him from drowning in it. She refuses to believe otherwise. She looks back towards the door. Their boots carried snow in from outside, just as Bone’s will have done. Some was lost on the stairs, but the remaining traces dampen the carpet, flattening it where they both stood the longest, by the threshold. Any further traces beyond are slowly leaching from the pile.

  She turns back to the patch of flattened carpet and says, “His body was soaking.”

  Stark raises a brow. “That’s relevant?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Explain.”

  Nia nods over at the carpet by the door. “Our shoes lost most of their snowmelt on the stairs. Just there, by the door, is a flatter patch where we first entered the room. The last of the damp from our shoes has compacted the pile just there. Bone’s shoes dried as he moved into the room, just as ours have, but his body was wet and hadn’t dried by the time he fell, and then got significantly wetter, drenching the carpet pile through.” She kneels down, touching her fingers to the edge of the indent for a split second. “Still damp, you see, and we haven’t just missed him. It’s been evaporating for a while, even in these temperatures. The top fibres are reconstituting. Something brought him out in a perpetuating sweat. A drug of some kind.”

  “Explains a bit about our other victims.” Stark nods sharply. “Good. Now, explain these blood droplets. I’m coming up blank. After what you said about drugs, I’m thinking he maybe got spiked and pitched a fit because there’s so little of it. But there’s no sign of a struggle. It’s plain weird.”

  Nia lowers her head to examine the droplets more closely. There’s no pattern to them, they’re random drips, but so thick, the blood must have been like syrup. It’s unusual, to say the least. Like nothing she’s ever seen. She looks around the carpet, trying to identify a splatter pattern, and her eyes flare wide. The drops aren’t confined to that flat patch of carpet. They’re everywhere, small enough to miss, but obvious now she’s looking for them, and the answer flashes into her mind.

  “It’s not his blood.”

  Stark stops what he’s doing. “What?”

  Nia indicates the drops around the room. “They’re all around. Something was dripping very thick blood from a height.”

  They hold each other’s eyes and say at the same time, “Lever.”

  Stark slaps a hand to his forehead. “Of course. We had it all wrong. It’s not fucking exposure Rope’s after. Bone’s a fucking target; he’s the target.”

  “He wants to kill him. Of course.” Nia’s overwhelmed, but something in her thinks that if she’d witnessed what he’d done in those labs, she’d want him to pay, too, though not like this, not with this wanton, mindless loss of life. Then she feels guilty for thinking that way about him at all. He’s been her friend for so long, such thoughts are a kind of betrayal.

  “I thought the sculptures were out of the way because Burneo was involved,” Stark says. “He was, that’s for certain, but I think the real reason they were hidden is because they were just for Bone. Not to solve, not as a sign of Rope’s superiority, but as some sort of progressive attack.” He snaps his fingers. “And Harris. Harris was a fucking lure, pulling him back to Lever. His fucking face, when Harris mentioned her …” He directs that black gaze at Nia and asks, though by his tone, he’s already got some idea, “What might Rope have been doing with such an attack?”

  “Memory patch degradation,” Nia says, immediately grasping the direction of his thoughts. “There’s a well known shortcut to breaking patches.”

  “Trauma,” Stark says.

  Nia nods. “Severe trauma.”

  Stark rubs his cheek, deeply troubled. “But doesn’t it have to be direct trauma? Our victims are one hell of a sucker punch, but they’re not personal.”

  “They are,” Nia says. “I’ve watched this case gradually compromise his confidence in his competence, in his skill. You know that’s all he’s got. He’s already coming apart. You’ve seen it. I have. One sharp shock to Bone’s mind and the whole thing will collapse.”

  “So, he’ll remember. You think he’ll remember all of it?”

  Nia shakes her head. “I think Bone’s patching was designed to become him. There’s no other way to explain how he hasn’t reverted in all this time, how he’s been stable enough to work, to gain his rep. In that case, if his patch ruptures, there’ll be one or two bright, almost abstract memories, but the rest will be fucking insanity. He’ll be gone.”

  “Shit.”

  Nia finds she’s fighting back tears. Her Bone, the Bone built over the patch, has been through enough. Leif was a vicious little man. He would have worried about Bone only in connection to his own reputation. The damage it might do to his public image. In private, he was incredibly cruel. Enjoyed humiliating others. Enjoyed
control, especially of his son. Though it’s no excuse for what Bone did, Leif’s manipulation was likely the reason he transgressed in the first place. To the man Bone’s become with the patching in place––and she believes it has worked on him, that he is a better man––Leif’s cruelty was a form of mental torture resulting in immense psychological damage. She finds that she can’t help but feel angry for him. Devastated and angry.

  “What can we do?” she demands. “I know he’s done wrong, Stark, but we have to help him.”

  Tension spirals from Stark. “Of course we do, and we have to get Tress back from Rope before …” He stops, staring at the floor for a moment, his shoulders too tense. When he looks up, his eyes are absolutely clear, the resolve in them frightening. He thumbs a glyph on his cell.

  “Suge. You got a copy of that map I sent out to the Buzz Boys?”

  “Of course.” Suge’s voice comes clear over the mic, as if he’s in the room, making Nia jump.

  “I want you to program it into a flexscreen with those sewer maps you sourced, and meet me at the River Head.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “Situation’s picked up a few notches. I’m about to go rogue.”

  “How rogue?”

  “Rogue as it fucking gets. Badge-loss rogue. The Notary is about to shut us down.”

  “Tress?”

  “They’ll abandon her.”

  “Not on my watch.”

  “Nor mine. And now we have another victim: Bone. The accomplice we learned about yesterday, that Lever woman, she got him. She’ll have taken him to Rope, which means his life is in the balance, too. I’m going in after Burneo, to get that help he was trying to offer.”

  “What the hell does Rope want with Bone? I thought he wanted Bone to solve these bodies, not become one.”

  “Nope. Turns out the whole damn thing is about him, and I’m not about to let him die when he’s got one hell of a lot to answer for. I’m done with pussyfooting this shit. I aim to end it.”

  Suge laughs. “Then there’s no way you’re going without me.”

  Stark grins. “Good man. Meet me in two hours. I’ve got Tal, we should be able to get there that fast. Bring torches and a spare gun. We’re taking Nia with us.”

  Nia gapes at him. “Me? I’m not equipped to go hunting killers, Stark.”

  He gives her the benefit of a deeply serious look. “No, but we may need someone who knows their way around bodies. I presume you have med training, too, yes?”

  Nia swallows, realising what he means. “Yes,” she says. “I can do that, but I’ll need a med kit.”

  Stark nods. “Suge, bring the best med kit you can source. I’d say swipe it from the bay.”

  “Done. See you in two hours.”

  Back in Stark’s car, speeding towards the River Head, Nia clasps her hands in her lap, her nails scoring bloody crescents in her palms as she fights to stay connected to the here and now. She feels sick and can’t stop it. Within her chest, a terrified heart contracts in rapid-fire bursts, leaving her breathless and ragged. She’s so frightened, she feels sensitised. But she’s empty, too. She’s lost her centre and doesn’t know how to go on. Everything she thought she knew, every certainty she had, lies in ruins, and she hasn’t a clue how to put them back together, or even if it’s possible.

  Chapter 39

  Spaz runs his hands over his hair. It’s usually in a fairly messy Mohican, but he’s tamed it and tied it back, as he always does on these occasions. He’s suited up, throttled by a silk tie and wearing fucking wingtips. It’s not anything he enjoys doing. This complete subsuming of his style has always felt like too much of a concession because the members of the Notary don’t respect him, they fear him. Moreover, they fear what he’s capable of. They should. Even though their understanding of the lengths he’ll go to is incomplete. He’s not a man of many principles, and they’ve pushed him until he’s prepared to break the few he has remaining.

  He shoves a sleek frag-pistol into his shoulder holster. It’s plas, bullets and all, and doesn’t show up on scans, and he knows he’ll be scanned. He’s no intention of using this today, but he’d never be fool enough to appear at a meeting with the Notary board unarmed. He buttons his jacket, checking the fabric flows over the gun, concealing it properly, and makes his way out to the waiting car. Dash is already inside, his fingers speeding over the flat pad of a tablet as he liaises in a simultaneous face-call through a screen attached to his right ear with the runners who’ll shadow them all the way to the meeting and back. Spaz doesn’t ask for this courtesy and protection, nor does he particularly require it, being more than capable of committing violence on his own behalf, but he receives it, nonetheless. He raises a brow at Dash as he settles into his seat. Dash stops talking for a moment and looks him up and down.

  “You look normal,” he notes.

  Spaz tugs at his collar. “It’s fucking throttling me.”

  Dash shrugs. “Par for the course.” He indicates the driver to move off and finishes his call.

  When he’s done, Spaz replies, “Makes not a damn difference what I look like. They all treat me like an unexploded bomb when they’ve never seen one, and wouldn’t know what to do if it made to blow up in their faces.”

  “You’d think they didn’t live in gang territories, the way they act,” Dash agrees scornfully.

  “They don’t, Dash. Eyes closed, fingers in their ears, humming up a storm to cover the sound of runners above them. Using the Zone like a fucking mod supermarket. They’ve blanked out the uncomfortable bits. They think the Spires belongs to them. Think we’ll go nice and quiet when we’re told.”

  “Rude shock awaits.”

  Spaz leans his head back against the seat. “Not half as rude as the one they’ll get if we pull this off.”

  “You still think we will? After all that’s happened?” Dash is unconvinced. “We lost him. Best runner teams available shadowing his arse twenty-four seven, and we lost him. We’re being outsmarted in our own game.”

  “Maybe,” Spaz replies quietly. “But I’ve responded.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. We can’t lose Bone. That’s a solid, inescapable fact, a boulder blocking my path. So, I’ve offered Stark the extra nudge he needed to put an end to this.”

  Dash puts his tablet to one side. “How’s that?”

  “I’ve given him the file we cobbled together after that little incident at the lab.”

  “Holy fuck! He could make one hell of a mess with that.”

  “Not really. Any damage to us, the Notary, or Central will be minor in the scheme of things. Thing is, Stark’s only been stalling because he knew the Notary would order him to stand down, and he’s been warned it’ll be his badge if he disobeys orders again. I needed to provide him with sufficient impetus to disregard that.”

  “But he’s a fucking human tank. The Notary’ll clock what’s going on in a flat second with him barrelling about.”

  Spaz lifts his hands, a helpless gesture. “We can’t keep this from them forever, that’s another inescapable fact. All we can do is try and get Bone safe under the radar. Get him to where we can protect him. That’s it. You know war’s coming. Connaught’s determined to find a way to provoke it, and that man is not somebody I would ever underestimate. He’s got gang levels of cunning in him. He’s dangerous, does what’s necessary. I respect that, even though I can’t allow it.”

  Dash acknowledges that with a nod, but he says nothing more. He knows the score. At the face of it, they’re fighting a civil battle of words over tables like the one they’re headed to now, but beneath the surface, the talons are out, tearing at the structures put in place to protect gang folk. Spaz slips down within himself, where scraps of things he’s seen mingle and merge, building an incomplete picture. He knows nothing of the future, he doesn’t even know for sure if he’s making the right moves. There are only possibilities, and many possibilites will always lead to failure. That’s just how it is.
/>   The Notary building is a monolithic structure at the heart of Mace Central, featureless, seamless, and haughty as a spire. The black glass at the bottom is not one-way, it doesn’t need to be, and the entrance lobby is larger than Central’s, with no stairs, only secure lift pods. The Notary are paranoid, and rightfully so. This building was designed to repel runners, a smooth plain of polished concrete, impossible to leap to from nearby buildings. The levels above the lobby are all one-way glass and shielded from both X-ray and psi-gens. It’s a fortress. As expected, both Spaz and Dash are scanned as they enter. Spaz feels the buzz on his body, the prying in his mind and holds it out effortlessly. Once cleared, a small guard of four Monks escort them to a pod, their faces blank as usual. But they’re on edge, they don’t like dealing with Spaz because they can’t read him. They struggle with Dash, too, who possesses natural protections against invasion. It’s the only reason Spaz allows him to accompany him to these sorts of meetings.

  At the fifth floor, Dash leaves the pod with one Monk at his side to join the Notary PA’s, whilst Spaz continues onward to the tenth floor, where his Monk guard ushers him out. He knows the way, but allows them to walk in front of him and lead him to the boardroom. Appearances are everything in this game. Jell mistook the brief and changed his spots, all Spaz does is disguise his to an extent. He knows the value of the long game. He also knows the value of appreciating the strengths of one’s opponents, and out of the whole board, he has only the one real opponent. He strides up to Connaught Yar as he enters the boardroom. Yar’s as tall as he is, with olive skin a shade darker than his own, and straight black hair. His eyes are black as CO Stark’s, and he hides the restrained demeanour of a hunter well beneath an icy smile and a silk suit. If Yar knew what they were planning, he’d kill Bone, which is why he won’t know for as long as Spaz can keep it under wraps.

  “Connaught,” he says, and they exchange a firm handshake, neither too soft nor too hard. They both know the value of holding back.

  “Eadin.”