Besides, Mantis Industries and the Good Shepherds were as far apart on the social scale as an ocean and a drop of piss. Any crossover should have been impossible.
I fumed in silence, making my way to the designated meetup. The irritation that had filled my thoughts before now leaked into a puddle of nerves that pissed me off more.
Knowing what I’d just learned, I altered my approach to buckled down and fucking angry. When I made it to the right coords, no real light filtered past the crumbling edges of the bridge overhead. No sign of life, either. The place was wet, dark and freaking eerie. I rubbed my cold flesh hand against the back of my cold tech one. The damp in this pisshole was beginning to condense on the diamond steel, making it slick.
“What do you see?” asked the operator.
“Eat a dick.”
“Riko.”
My jaw locked. “Nothing,” I said through my teeth. “Fucking pause.”
“Maybe they left when you didn’t show.”
“Maybe they left because your intel sucks,” I snapped. Not that I believed that. This was too much a setup to miss because of a few minutes. My lips tightened. In the optics wired into my left eye, I watched numbers spike when I fisted my tech hand. The shadow remnant of my missing arm didn’t hurt today, which meant the only feedback I got came through the implant that registered pressure, make up, and grip strength.
That was nice. It wouldn’t ache when I punched somebody. And oh, would I punch the living fuck out of somebody today.
We both fell into an uneasy silence. One in which I leaned my back against the farthest support wall and pretended like I wasn’t surveying my surroundings, feeling like a target with crosshairs locked on.
I didn’t have to wait long.
2
My name floated from nowhere. “Ri-ko…” Emphasis on the first syllable. Rich with a tenderness I hadn’t expected, creepy as necroballs hanging on a holiday tree.
I tagged it for modulation of the voice box, carefully tweaked for non-offensive and warm. Like… I don’t know, something laced with a sedative. Wasn’t any tech a scavenger invested in. It was the kind of intonation dirty old men pull on kids. Right before pulling out of ’em.
That meant a Shepherd. And I seriously hate Shepherds.
See, I’ll fuck a willing nun till her judgment day, but I draw the line at rape and pedophilia. These ambulatory cankersores use religious affirmation as an excuse to do that and more. Their big kick is transubstantiation – as they tell it, the one who eats their holy sacrament becomes their Christ in all his glory.
That means any greasy little nutsucker can swallow a cracker, pop a boner, and let fly the holy seed. But only the men. The brothers and whatever. Their sisters, their chosen, whatever they wanted to fuck, had to bow down and take it.
What would Jesus do?
Whatever he wanted, apparently.
I knew an honest-to-god Christian who’d be so angry if he knew. I’d have to tell him one day. Mostly because watching my somewhat tarnished pocket detective go all wide-eyed and shocked had become a great source of fun.
This Shepherd, though. I recognized the voice under the modulator. Nothing fun about him. My anger fled, replaced by impatient exasperation. “Deacon fucking Carmichael. Can’t forget me, huh?”
Not that I’d entirely forgotten him, either. Carmichael was one of those Shepherds who’d managed to haul ass out of the carnage before joining it. At the time, he’d carried the biggest stick like it’d pass for the biggest cock, and he’d promised to rape all three of us. Once in every hole and twice in the eye socket.
I’d left my mark – we all had – but I wish I’d been the one to shoot him. That gift had been delivered by another member of Kill Squad, right in the ass. On purpose, she’d said. I’d bet on shitty aim.
So that explained the named request. But not yet his link to Mantis. Or why he’d crawled out of his filthy nest to get me.
“Deacon?” His smirk translated without visuals. I couldn’t place which direction it came from, either, which set me more on guard than I would’ve been had he shown himself. The whole area was like a freezing distortion filter. “No, no. I’ve risen to Our Father Christ’s chosen.”
“Whoop-de-dick-a-doo,” was my congratulatory response.
“Is that how you greet an old friend?” A veiled threat in that voice thing, which made the fine hairs on my meat arm prickle. Warped and sweet. An ugly combo.
“Want another bullet up your ass?” I shot back.
“Hey,” the operator interjected, “you want to simmer down, hotshot?”
No. And fuck him so very much.
“Neither a bullet nor another scar, thank you.” A rich note of amusement, and not at all what I expected. “What you gave me was enough.”
Not nearly.
He wasn’t done. “You know, you were prettier when you were young.”
Gross. Ugh. A thousand yottabytes of fucking no.
My flesh fingers itched. Soon as I found his scrawny little neck, I was wringing it. One-handed. Meat to meat, so I could feel the veins pop and vertebrae crack. My diamond steel arm would do more damage, easily process the amount of force it’d take to collapse his windpipe and register it in the optic feed I only half paid attention to, but it just wouldn’t have the same rush.
Only first, I needed to know where he’d gotten his intel. On me, on Mantis and on MetaCorp. I wish I could have brought Indigo.
I wish he trusted me enough to do that.
I took a breath, grimacing. “Fork over your info before I skin your scarred ass for your desperate little brides to rub off on.”
“Riko.” The operator slapped a hand to his forehead. His voice had that sound to it. “Who taught you to negotiate?”
Nobody. Or rather, it never stuck. Digo had done all the talking; I’d done all the shooting, stabbing, glaring, breaking, maiming… Tactics and data are what linkers are for. Birdseye processing and boots on the ground direction, indispensable for any mission. He was my guy for all things – knew the best fixers, got the best jobs.
He’d once told me I needed to learn when to stroke my dick and when to stow it. Never figured it out. Stroking it felt so much better.
Carmichael’s laugh rolled out like a warm, loving sigh. It took effort not to gag. “God, I love your fire.” My scalp prickled. Wringing. His. Neck. “Why don’t you stay a while?” he continued from the dark. “Let’s catch up on old times. Tell me all about yourself.”
My body tensed, hands clenching against the wall I leaned against. “How about you just give me what I’m here for? I won’t,” I added thinly, “ask again.”
“Will you talk with me if I do?”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes,” hissed over my comm. “I assume,” came the too-melodic voice, “you want to ask me just how I knew about your little corporation fetish.”
Ah, damn.
“The intel,” the operator warned, as if he could hear my temper cracking. Given my heartbeat thudding bloody murder in my ears, he could. “MetaCorp is the end goal. Do your job.”
Well actually, smashing this screwhead’s face in had just become my end goal. “Fine.” I spread my hands wide, showing my weaponless status to the dark at large. “We’ll talk.”
“Good girl.” Light shimmered into view, a gleam to my left. He’d been hiding on the other side of the bridge. I straightened, pushed off the brick. Wasn’t ready when that glow erupted into a pristine lance of bright white. Neon be fucked, the whole place lit up like daylight. Burned out the ads – and my retinas.
Sheets of red and orange popped in the back of my eyeballs. The data rolling through my optics stood out against the flash, cataloguing the worn brick my metal hand slammed against. Stone alloy, cement and ground up bits of whatever came before it.
Perfect for ramming a skull into.
He had performative dickery down to an art, I’d give him that. It took me a few precious seconds to see through the visual afterburn
; he’d cracked my night vision with a ten-ton wrecking ball. Asshole.
By the time I could see again, Carmichael had fully formed like the miracle he wanted to be. The weird toga he wore already looked stupid, but the shitting thing was woven with filaments of lightwire. He was a sanctified beacon in the metaphorical – and literal – shadows. A religious wet dream.
His smile, behind a bushy auburn beard I was surprised his babyface had managed to grow, lacked half the teeth in the bottom left of his mouth.
That was my doing. Nanos don’t regrow teeth. The rest were yellowed and brown at the edges, but most hadn’t fallen out yet. I’d rectify that today, I swore to his sick fuck of a god.
He leered at me. “That’s more like it. I assume you have what I asked for?”
I stared at him, blinking rapidly. “Dim it.”
It took him a second or so to realize I’d meant the robe. He obeyed nicely enough. Odds were the thing screwed his vision, too. “For you,” he said. Gracious, his scarred ass.
I let it slide. “You asked for me,” I said, looping back to his question. “And creds. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“So you are.” His hands dropped. “My brothers tell me you enjoyed yourself on the way.”
My lips twisted in a short smile. “You tailed me.” I gave this one to him; I knew better and I’d gotten lazy. “Not bad. I hadn’t noticed.”
“Told you,” the operator muttered.
Carmichael’s back straightened, teeth a ragged curve. “We’re stronger, Riko.”
Uh huh.
I made a show of propping my foot up on the wall, leaning my head back to gaze somewhere over his head. The light had lowered, but my night vision refused to return. That irritated me too. In fact, this whole cunting thing irritated me.
Blah, blah, negotiate. Didn’t need to hear it again. “So that must be how you found out about me, huh?” Wide-eyed bullshit delivered in sugar. I felt stupid. “All that strength and shit.”
“You’re awful at this.” Resignation from the operator.
He could eat two dicks.
“I know people,” the Shepherd purred, unaware of my eavesdropping babysitter. His heavy-lidded blue eyes settled on my face. Stared at me hard enough that my skin crawled right up my skull. “I know where you like to drink, Riko. Where you fuck in the corners and the business you want to hide.” His remaining teeth looked rotting brown in the light of his robe. “And I know how bad you want MetaCorp.”
Everybody knew where I liked to hang. The Mecca was nobody’s secret. Everybody also knew where I liked to fuck. Also not a secret, and most comers – heh – welcome.
MetaCorp and my business? That part wouldn’t fly. As much as I desperately wanted to see how far my nun-caked fist could go down his throat, I had to talk to get what I needed. Not my strong suit.
Fucking Malik.
I pulled out my best smile – one with less teeth than usual.
He flinched.
“Well, that sounds great,” I replied, light as I could manage. “I got your creds.” I tapped my jacket, where the outer breast pocket held the credsticks he’d demanded. Less than a usual payday but more than a Shepherd deserved. “And you got me here. So, fair trade, Carmichael. You know what I want.”
That shiteating smile of his widened to the point the blackened rim of his empty gums framed it. “There it is,” he said, that soft, welcoming voice all but vibrating in the air between us. “You’re so much sweeter when you’re a good girl, Riko.”
Ugh. Like he had ever known me.
My fake cheer vanished. “Oh-kay.” I dropped my foot.
His gaze sharpened, one hand out. “Don’t move.”
I would have ignored that, gone right for his fugly face with the bottom of my boot, but the operator’s voice hardened on the line. “Negotiate.”
“Eat three dicks,” I snapped. “It’s a setup, you stupid cunt.”
The Shepherd in front of me sighed elaborately, while the operator in my ear hissed.
Didn’t matter. I got it now. Carmichael should have been frothing for this much cred in his bank. Instead, he was stalling like I was slow in the head. The pity he leveled on me only wrenched my temper higher. “Vulgar mouth,” he chided. “You leave now and I can’t guarantee your safety anymore. Our Lord told me that you need it.”
His Lord could eat an extra dick on the side. So much dick to go around.
Enough was enough.
I closed the distance between us, knocked Carmichael’s arm away and had a hold of his greasy beard before he could do more than manage a half step back in surprise. My flesh fingers twined into the coarse length so tight, his skin went bloodless where it pulled taut.
“Hey,” I growled. “Father Fistula. We are not equals.” He opened his mouth, hand pushing at the seam of metal at my shoulder. The plating claimed half my scapula, a harsh ridge between flesh and tech. It didn’t move, and his nails found no traction.
I dragged the struggling Shepherd higher up by his beard, until he was on his toes and sputtering incoherently. His pocked and scabbed neck stretched, cords popped out in stark relief. The glow from his robes painted his upturned face in wild light and shadows, outlining every quivering pore.
I loved being tall. Having the kind of whipcord body that can bench assholes like him was just frosting. I smiled bloody menace into his panicked rictus, his eyelids twitching.
“Riko!”
“Shut up,” I snapped into the comm, eyes on the father. To him, I said, “A few bullet points.” I lifted one metal finger in front of his eyes. “I’m not going to freeze my ass off while you run your fuckhole like you have any standing.” Another finger. “That sister what’s her face? Just got her first and best orgasm in her entire shitting life, so you are welcome for showing her the light.” His hands tried to go for my face. I batted them away. Metal knocked against bone, and he yelped. “And if you don’t tell me everything you know right fucking now,” I snarled, “I will nail your syphilitic nuts to your nostrils.”
3
Watching his face transform from pain to fury fascinated me, in a weird kind of way. I mean, people didn’t usually stare into my eyes and see a chance in hell.
He thought he did. His total lack of fear nagged at me in a big bad way. Stalling, obviously, but he thought he had an ace stashed somewhere.
One hand grabbed my wrist. “Swallow my sanctified cock, bitch.” Saliva frothed on every word, spattering my hand and forearm. “I’ve got–”
I shoved a knee into his gut. Caught him as he bent over with a mangled grunt and jerked him back upright by his beard. Roots gave way.
His limbs flailed. Tears filled his reddening eyes. His breath wheezed, but he didn’t stop. “I was going to let my brothers fuck you,” he gasped. Pissy to the last. “But now I oughta send your corpse to Koupra.” He spat in my face. “A favor.”
I froze, fingers straining in his beard. His patter of spittle cooled on my cheek. I left it. Not the worst that ever hit my face. “Why.” A demand, not a question.
Something snide and dumb had clearly popped into his head. He seized my wrist, trying to balance on shaking tiptoe as he sneered at me. “Turned on your team. Caused your linker’s sister to go necro.”
My lips pulled back from my teeth.
“And it’s no secret you’ve been panting for MetaCorp. Did you know,” he added with a hysterical kind of glee, “they’re looking for you, too? A few questions to the right people…” He laughed, high and tight. “You know you’re fucked, don’t you?”
Yep. But hey, good news: he wasn’t wrong. It was no secret I’d been digging for info on MetaCorp. Or that MetaCorp might be trying to kill me. That shit happened on the regular among SINless. There were all kinds of jobs on the market – including ones quietly offered by corporate subsidiaries looking to score one up on other corp subsidiaries. Being off grid meant corporations used third parties to hire saints, and didn’t have to worry about a trail leading back to ’em. Saints
don’t usually know who hires them – a good fixer keeps it that way.
Hypocrisy is an art.
The bad news was that he wasn’t wrong about Indigo’s sister, either. Nanjali Koupra haunted my recent past and foreseeable future in a nasty way. That the barest details of her conversion had leaked was old news – everybody knew I’d been reported dead, and that Indigo had a serious beef with me that years of runs couldn’t bury. His sister had gone necro on my watch.
As for the rest of the chumheads out there gossiping like bored housewives, they didn’t know I’d lost months of my memory up until that point. Only Indigo and Malik Reed did, and we kept it a closely guarded secret. Memory loss meant brain fuckery, and brain fuckery skirted too close to misbehaving tech for most. Misbehaving tech makes the jumpy ones think conversion, and threats of conversion earn a street funeral.
In short: a lot of blood and a barrel on fire.
Carmichael didn’t seem to know that much, which was good. I smiled at the Shepherd trying to make like he wasn’t all that hurt by his long and curlies in my fist. “Who is your contact?”
He leered. “You afraid?”
“Boy,” I said, still smiling, “I will fist your skull like I fucked your precious sister if you don’t–”
“MetaCorp,” the operator yelled over me. “Get back on track!”
No. MetaCorp would be there tomorrow. Right now, the source that linked me and Mantis took precedence. Then I’d verify MetaCorp’s presence – not that I expected any. Then I’d rip the Shepherd’s throat out.
Then cumflakes on Malik’s desk.
My fist tightened in Carmichael’s beard. “Who.” A jerk. “Is.” Another, wrenching his head. “Your.” Tears streamed from his gritty eyes. “Contact.”
He sealed his mouth so tight, sweat seamed between his thinned lips.
I ripped my hand away, fingers full of matted brown hanks. The audible sound of thin skin tearing filled me with gleeful satisfaction, seconded only by his high-pitched howl.
Carmichael staggered back and bent over, hands clutching at his chin. While he struggled, swearing violently, I turned my attention to the vermin runs on the other side of the bridge overhang.
Nanoshock Page 2