by Faith Hunter
I tilted my head, saying nothing, letting the necessity of a guard—outside, in the heat—worm through Marty’s head. It meant I had more good stuff to trade. I leaned against the rig’s shady side as Marty pulled himself up into the bed and began to rummage around. He was noisy, the vibrations of his search shuddering through the vehicle. It took a long time. Scrawny, stinking junkyard dogs came and went, sniffing crotches, accepting treats from the guards, receiving a halfhearted kick or two from them when they got too personal. They ignored my crew and me, which was interesting. I was sweating like a stevedore, a sticky summer sweat, oily and slimy. I needed water. I had to pee.
Spy had wormed her way inside a container and sent me a vision of a box marked with a logo and words that meant nothing to her, but matched what Harlan had told me months ago had been delivered to Morrison’s. It was the piece of equipment I needed to recover the Simba.
I sent back to her waves of delight, and if a cat could pat herself on the back, Spy would have. She returned to me a vision of a pile of sardines, protein, the only thing cats really cared about. Well, protein, toys, belly rubs, and, occasionally, something to kill.
I sent a vision of her outside, walking around the container and searching out symbols, and got back a vision of a human rolling in mud. I wasn’t sure why. Then she sent me a vision of a corner of the desert-camo siding and a partially painted-over number: 814. I returned a vision of sardines and felt Spy’s back arch with pleasure. The cat and I had struck a junkyard bargain.
Marty finally jumped to the ground and joined me in the shade, his eyes hard and uncompromising. Large sweat rings circled beneath his arms and along his back, the result of moving the heavy scrap to see the trays and the copper. “Okay,” he said. “I saw the silver and the copper. Here’s what I want. Everything in the truck except the crap scrap. I got enough of that to last me a lifetime. And I want the ring.”
“For what?” I asked. “Cash? Or that trade I mentioned? Which we have not discussed.”
“What do you want?” he snapped. Then caught himself and smiled.
I relaxed against the warm armored cab door and tapped my lips as if thinking. “Let’s go for a walk. I’ll pick a container.”
“Fine.”
I snapped my fingers to Cupcake, in a bossy gesture. “Add up the wholesale value of all our larger trade items. In case I see something I want.”
I found Spy in my mind and located her general direction from the main office. Marty and I walked side by side, with Cupcake, Jagger, and Marty’s two armed men behind us. Of the six of us, I had a feeling that Cupcake could become the most deadly of us all. What the hell had happened to the weepy woman who had killed her first man yesterday? Had the nanobots restructured her brain into what she thought I needed within hours of the battle? That was a terrifying possibility.
We wandered. I pointed to container 427 and looked inside when Marty opened the lock. I mentally catalogued the contents, shrugged, and pointed to container 212, and then 386, with the same results. For each container, Marty used the same master key. That was stupid.
A tortie cat dropped from a height and landed in front of us, looked at me, and sprang back up high, but down a narrow pathway to the right. I followed. Marty whipped his head at the cat’s appearance, but said nothing. Cats kept down the rat population, and Marty likely had feral and stray cats all over. But this one was mine.
Down the narrow aisle, I saw a series of desert-camo-painted shipping containers, three of them six meters long, two of them twelve meters long. From the smell of fresh paint, lack of filth on them, and the deep truck-tire tracks in the dirt around the bases, it was clear these were new-ish. I wondered how Marty’s military network had been put together. He was crossing dangerous lines.
I pointed at the first container and watched from the corner of my eye as Marty hesitated. Cupcake jingled the jewelry bag, an enticement.
Marty opened the odd, heavy lock. This key was different—thick and bulky, with both a male-female and female-male center part. I had a feeling it also involved a laser. Marty had military locks. Marty had gone into the black market big time. That meant the Hand of the Law had been bribed.
A thought squirreled under my breastbone. Harlan was always looking for military scrap.
Harlan was dead.
The container opened, a squeaking black maw. I stepped in. “Well, well, well,” I said. “Marty’s got him some weapons.” My gaze swept over the military ordnance, counting. Twenty-five cases, each holding a minimum of three long-rifles capable of multiple-caliber projectiles, all with AI targeting and high-capacity mags. I heard multiple clicks from three different weapons, all behind me.
“Seriously, Marty?” Cupcake asked. “You’re going to have a shoot-out right here? You three against us three? Even if you walk away from a firefight alive, Amos has orders to blow everything into next year. You’ll get nothing, and your pretty new decorated office will be a pile of splinters. And the blast will bring law enforcement in from everywhere.”
“Put away the weapons,” I said, trying to sound grumpy instead of terrified. “No one is shooting anyone. I have customers who sometimes need military hardware. Now, I know where to send them.” I turned around to see Marty a meter away, still pointing a blaster at my middle, his finger on the trigger that would cause my blood to boil. He looked uncertain, on the edge, and I decided he needed a little push in the right direction. It was dark enough that he might not realize I was moving too fast to be human.
I ducked. Swiveled. Kicked. My heel whacked Marty’s hand. The blaster went flying.
He gave a yodel of pain.
Cupcake grabbed the blaster out of the air. Pointed it at Marty.
Jagger was suddenly there, in the doorway, two weapons pointing at the heads of the armed men. All of us, faster than human.
“Really, boys,” Jagger drawled, his accent extra strong. “You don’t wanta do that.”
Marty flexed his hand. “You could have broken my hand.”
“Could have. Didn’t. Let’s move on. I’m not interested in fully automatic rifles, even if they do have third-gen targeting systems.” I meandered outside and to container number 814. Stood in the agonizing heat, waiting. Eventually Marty unlocked the steel door. I stepped inside. Looked around, bored. Then I stopped. “Marty, is that a second-generation Tesla Lockmart IGP?” I bent into a squat in front of the box. “I might be interested in this little baby, assuming the price is right.”
Marty was suddenly the salesman again, holding his bruised hand, unctuous, and willing to do business. “Newest version of the Antigravity Grabber,” he said. “Half the size of the original model, with nearly twice the lifting power. Portable. Self-propelled, easy to pilot, turns on a dime. I got two of these beauties, and these babies can be run on multiple fuel and power sources. Idiot-proof operating system. Even come with battery backup, so you don’t lose whatever you’re holding during unexpected power outages. Both are for sale.” He patted the container and indicated a box behind the one I could see.
“Mmm. I can see how a portable one might come in handy. You ever used one?”
“I have one in the foundry. Useful lil’ sucker.”
I stood dusting off my gloved hands. “Yeah. Maybe. Let’s see some more.”
a successful bargain was based on the tickle and grab, or the bait and hook. It required a buyer to show just enough interest to make the seller think they might have a sale, then walk away. Then mention that item. Then walk away. It required the buyer (me) to make the seller (Marty) want to make the deal, make him think he’s pulling one over on me if I’m interested. Of course, the seller was playing the same game in reverse, but that just made it more interesting. Especially when there were weapons in play.
I made Marty show me all the other camo-painted containers, and I picked three different items, including a high-tech microscope that could be used for geological specimens, metallurgy, and biology, depending on the oculars and the digital software. I also found a to
p-of-the-line automatic-targeting scope I could mount on top of the office and tie into the security system, and a new refrigeration unit I could sell in a heartbeat. We dickered. We cussed each other a little, called each other names as we stood in the heat and sweated. Marty wanted easily disposable and transportable jewelry, but the three items together weren’t worth the ring. We agreed on four silver trays instead.
We headed back to my truck, me with a bounce in my step as if I had what I wanted. Marty a little slower, pondering his next negotiating move.
We watched as Marty’s men unloaded my scrap, the good-quality stuff and the worthless stuff that would go back on the truck to cover up my purchases. I watched as my three new items were placed and secured in the truck bed.
And then Marty, oh so casually, took the bait. “You still interested in that Tesla Lockmart IGP? A portable AG Grabber is worth its weight in gold.”
I nearly bit my cheek trying to hold in my victory grin. “I have plenty of gold. And I already have an IGP.”
“An old one, right? Original year?”
“Yeah. So?” I asked, a little belligerent.
“They don’t even make parts for original models these days. I’d love to close a deal with you on one of the IGPs.”
I shrugged and accepted a drink from Marty’s henchman. Their weapons were all hidden now, so that meant things were progressing nicely. Time for the Bargaining Dance. I tilted back the drink and discovered it was cola. I hadn’t had a cola in ages. It bubbled and burned and went down so sweet I nearly wanted to cry. “Been a while since I had one of these,” I said. “Nice. But I don’t know, Marty. Just because I’m flush now, doesn’t meant I will be later. I might need other things before I need an IGP.”
“I’ve been known to work with people who fell on hard times. Make some deals between friends.”
“Work with people?” I let him see my teeth in what only a magnanimous person would call a smile. “I’ve heard the tales about your goons working on people. With baseball bats.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Shining.” He placed a hand over his heart. “I’m mighty easy to work with. Mighty easy. Make me an offer.”
Shining.
I went cold and hard and eternally pissed. Things I had hoped were not true, but clearly were, settled inside me. I squinted at Cupcake. “That ring is worth way more than a piece of equipment we don’t need.”
Cupcake was watching me, her eyes taking in the tiny, intimate body-language changes only a thrall would see. To Marty, she said, “Toss in some seeds. I saw packets of heirloom seeds behind the counter. And we could use some solder to seal the rain catcher.”
“Soldering iron I might could use,” I said, working things through, “but still not value for value.”
“Tell you what,” Marty said. “You give me that ring, and one other ring of my choosing, and I’ll load up an IGP, a top-of-the-line, heavy-duty soldering station and iron, new in the box, extra solder, an old but operational M72 laser, and I’ll keep a credit on the books.”
M72? Dayum! I frowned a little. “Nah. Cash I’m willing to do. Not credit. Sorry, Marty.” I raised my voice. “Okay, people. Time to head out.”
“I can do cash,” Marty said quickly.
I made a face and rocked my head side to side as if thinking. “A girl can always use liquid assets.” I glanced around and didn’t see Jagger or the cats. Marty’s men still had their weapons holstered. “I guess we can chat about it. But I’m not paying top dollar for something I don’t need today.”
Marty grinned and we both looked at Cupcake. She frowned, not certain where I was going or what I might want her to do. She settled on hefting the bag, which clinked temptingly. “I’ll show you six rings, all fourteen karat. Your choice of the original and one other.”
“Deal,” Marty said. He looked at me. “She’s cute. You two . . . you know . . .” He made an obscene gesture.
Cupcake burst out laughing and pulled herself onto the truck’s running board, moving faster and smoother as the nanobots in her system prepared her body for battle. She opened the driver’s door and hot air whooshed out. She scooted across and opened the passenger door, too, before she dropped to the ground. “It’s hot. Let’s go inside where it’s cool and I can pick out my seeds.” She led the way to Marty’s storefront, business office, and breakfast joint. “And another cola for the boss lady would be nice.”
As we walked, I realized that Cupcake didn’t look like Cupcake anymore. She looked younger, sprier, prettier. My nanobots had done what Clarisse Warhammer’s hadn’t. They were rebuilding her, healing age-related illnesses. Cupcake was mutating. Fast. And it had started yesterday. With gunfire.
∆∆∆
While Cupcake handled the financial details, I watched the heavy gear being loaded. I had gotten everything I needed, a few things I could sell, a handful of cash, and everything Cupcake wanted, which meant a bag of seed packets and a batch of solar panels. Marty ended up with six trays and two rings: the flawless diamond-and-ruby ring and a gold band encrusted with five quarter-karat diamonds.
I checked on Amos, who was soaked in sweat and nearly prostrate with heat exhaustion after helping load and rearrange. There were a dozen empty water bottles on the floor near him and as many more full of pee. Smart man. “Anything?” I asked him softly.
“Yeah. Cats everywhere, and the woman made a tour of the rig. We chatted. I didn’t see her plant anything, but I could have missed it.”
“Copy.” I tapped my earbud. “Mateo. You there?”
“Monitoring cameras and transmissions. The mini-cams caught it. Pull over when you cross the river and I’ll direct you to two tailers.” Tailers were tracking systems that could use vibrations, static electricity, or solar for power. Marty wanted to know where we were. Not unexpected after his slip. Marty wanted to—what? Find us and steal the goods back? Tell someone where we were?
“Let’s take them off now,” I murmured. “Before we leave.”
“You sure? He’s watching you.”
“Yeah? Good. Marty needs a lesson that might make him bleed.”
“What kind of lesson?” Mateo’s mechanical voice was suspicious. “What did I miss?”
“Later. Amos,” I said to the guard, “we’re about to have trouble.”
“Ten-four.” Things moved around in Amos’s hidey-hole as he maneuvered his weapons.
I raised my voice. “Asshole!”
Jagger walked around the corner of the building, a warrior ready for anything. He drew his weapons and stood with his back to the side of the business office. I didn’t see the henchmen. Didn’t mean they were taking naps. Didn’t mean I wasn’t being targeted.
Cupcake appeared, Marty close behind. Mateo told me where the two tailers were planted, and I bent under the diesel’s running board for the first one and stopped at the rig’s back tires for the second one. I stared at Marty and rattled the tailers in my closed fist. “Marty, Marty, Marty,” I said, sounding sad, staring at him as I let my anger free.
Cupcake stepped into the cab and removed her handgun from the side pocket. Cats, sensing problems, came from everywhere. Two hurtled into the cab. The others scattered around, hunting, hiding.
Still sounding sad, I said, “You planned to use these tailers to track me? Take back all the items?” My voice got hard. “Go back on our deal? Maybe turn us over to the MS Angels?”
He raised his hands, all peaceable. “Ms. Smith, I’d never do such a thing. And I’d never do business with a gang.”
I caught a vision from Spy. The two armed men were on the roof of the storefront. They were pointing weapons at us. I sent back a vision of Spy and some of the clowder leaping on top of the men, clawing, and taking a bite out of what skin was available. Instantly my vision scrambled into fractions of activity.
From the roof, a gunshot and a human scream rang out. Cat yowls. More screaming.
Marty froze at the sight of my blaster, suddenly in my hand. I was holding on to
the truck cab with my other hand, dizzy, but not showing it.
Two dogs came running, all teeth and attitude, slavering, mistreated, trained to attack. I didn’t have nonlethal weapons on me, but being pulled down and mauled wasn’t on my dance card today. With my free hand, I pulled a handgun and aimed it at the closest dog.
A cat soared from the truck cab onto the dog and clawed in, biting down on his ear. The other cat landed on the second dog’s nose.
I turned my extra weapon to Marty, who was, by now, pointing a semiautomatic at me.
The dogs raced off, yelping. The cats disappeared.
“Oh, Marty,” I made some little tsking sounds, my heartrate speeding, my breathing deepening.
The woman, Wanda, stepped from the office, quick like a snake, and shoved a weapon into Jagger’s side. In my exact tone of voice, she said, “Oh, Ms. Smith.”
They thought they had us.
Faster than human, Jagger stepped in a sinuous “S” shape around her weapon. He batted her gun away and snatched her in front of him, his nine-millimeter at her chest.
Marty swung his weapon to the woman and back to me, his mouth slightly open. Scant seconds had passed since the start of the attack. I smiled again, the nasty smile.
Spy sent me a vision of two men on the roof, scratched and bleeding, their weapons to the side. One of the men was crying, a hand over his eye. I figured he had lost it. Med-bays that could reliably regrow an eye were few and far between.
I sent Spy a vision of her shoving all the weapons off the roof. I heard a little chuffing sound, and a semi-automatic landed in the dirt with a soft thud. A fully automatic weapon followed. I flinched as it fell, expecting it to fire. It didn’t. More weapons joined them.
“Put it down, Marty,” I said when everything went quiet. Marty bent to the ground, placed his weapon at his feet, and kicked it over to me.
“Who told you my name?” I asked.
Over comms, Mateo cursed softly, putting it together. He hadn’t caught Marty’s mistake.
Marty’s face twitched just a hair. “I’ve always known your name.”