Nanoshock

by K C Alexander

  All it did was piss me right the shit off.

  What was the problem? I’d been sent in with a team that did its job – got me a path inside. I’d scoped it out. Came back with the data.

  Or to be precise, zero data. Just a whole fucking bunch of automated systems programmed to lay down hell at anything that moved. No data in the banks. No nothing. Just machines and a fucking hum in my head that told me I should’ve found something else. Anything else.

  Instead, I’d snapped. Even as I stood in the cold room and breathed in real slow, I recognized I’d lost my shit.

  Wasn’t the first time. I’d have to start considering that I was far more fucked up than I let on. And worse, that everybody else knew that. Reed had once warned that brains were untrustworthy – that like any computer, they could be hacked.

  It wasn’t that I doubted that kind of skill, it’s that shit like that is beyond the realms of norm. It’d take some serious, serious power and credits and time and skill to pull it off.

  So I couldn’t remember four months of my time. Three months of which, according to Digo, I’d been wandering around sounding and looking normal. That left a month missing in that lab.

  Not even close to enough time. Hell, biotech took longer – you don’t just regrow a limb over the course of a few months. Brainmeats? That took far longer.

  So here I was. Back at cunting square one with nothing to show for it. No intel, no leads on whatever spunkdumpster had decided to expose my shit. No idea if Indigo or Reed had betrayed me; no idea what I’d do if they had.

  How was I supposed to press on now?

  A muffled thump at the door had me opening my eyes. I tilted my head to glare as it slid open; the kind that pulled out and to the side.

  Malik braved his intestines first, cool as ice and unruffled in his gray suit. Or so he’d like everyone to think. I saw different. Honed in on it. The corners of his mouth pinched, eyelids tight. If his cheekbones got any sharper, he’d cut himself in the mirror. A glance at the mess I’d made only squared his jaw into barely contained fury. Hell, I could practically feel the heat in his eyes burn the cold away.

  Well, at least I had that going for me.

  He threw my clothes at my feet. “You,” he said flatly, “are out of your mind.”

  “Sort of the problem, isn’t it?” I replied, neither facing him nor picking up my clothes. I just kept him in my sidelong periphery, head tilted back. “I mean, it’s not like your worthless bank of shitsuckers are helping in any way.”

  He waited me out, black lashes a thick, narrowed ream around glittering eyes. When I fell silent, he clasped his hands behind his back – all patient businessman, but for the lie it was – and looked pointedly at my hands. “Look at yourself,” he said, just this side of a sneer. “You’ve got the blood of allies on your hands, Riko. Blood on your face. That wasn’t MetaCorp or Mantis or OGEnterprises you tore apart, those were allies.”

  My gaze returned to the ceiling. “And?”

  A sharply razored silence. Then, shiny black shoes tapping gently, he circled around to look me in the face. I gave him that one. If only to meet his eyes with the utter apathy I felt for him seeping out of every single pore.

  Not that he seemed to care. “You’re not thinking,” he said flatly. “And the more you don’t think, the less you get.”

  “Not,” I returned in flat mimicry of his tone, “that I’m getting anything anyway.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Your munches didn’t tell you?”

  A tic at his jaw. A single beat at his temple. “You did not tell them.”

  “Oh.” Eat me. “Silly me.”

  He stared at me.

  I stared back.

  When it stretched near to snapping, I gave him what he wanted. Deliberately, so he knew I’d made the choice myself. “The place was fully automated, with turrets set up for maximum carnage. Only bank of computers left had nothing but defense protocols. In short, Malik, your people netted me a whole lot of nothing. Again.”

  An eyebrow rose. “You didn’t wait for Feliz to get in there?”

  “Why?” I scoffed. “So she could look at nothing, too?”

  He took a slow, deep breath. Wide nostrils flaring. Let it out just as slow. I could smell the smoke on his breath. I hadn’t noticed it before. Something spicier than nicotine and tar.

  I blinked. “Hold on,” I said, throwing up a bloody hand between us. “Hold on a fucking second.” I stared at him. Hard enough to make that second eyebrow join the first. “Do you smoke cloves? Is that even a thing anymore? Does your wife know you spend a fortune on greenhouse habits?”

  Possibly I couldn’t push him further. I’d never seen him look so laser-focused fury. For the first time, I braced. Not for his usual authoritative attitude, not for his random bouts of amusement, but for something uglier. Something that crawled under that freckled mask and promised shades of murder I didn’t think he had in him.

  Executive assholes don’t get to where they are by playing pretty.

  And if he laid one finger on me, I’d break every bone in his body and rub my asshole raw on the rest of him.

  Did he sense it in kind? Do sharks recognize other predators? I had no idea. He didn’t touch me, and that was enough of a victory for me.

  Besides, my fingers were really starting to hurt. They weren’t supposed to splay in the directions they did, and until I reset those bones, the tendons would keep stretching. I curled a lip at him. “Let me know when you have something worthwhile.”

  “You think it’s that easy?”

  “We made a deal–”

  And there it was. The moment I thought I’d won. He snapped out a hand so fast, I blinked and missed it. He had a hold of the front of my skinsuit in one large fist, dragged me to the tip of my toes until I was nose to nose and eye to enraged eye. “You,” he growled, “are losing any credibility you gained here. Don’t. Push. It.”

  Losing? Like any of this was my fault. My curled lip turned into full-on teeth, violence screaming my head down. “Fuck you,” I snarled back. I grabbed the front of his stupid suit, shearing raw agony through my malformed fingers. Aggression to raw aggression. “You’re the asshole who offered this gig, you’re the guy who runs a bunch of chuckleheads for analysts. Your teams have dropped ball after ball, and I–”

  “Have proven over and over that you’re not trustworthy,” he cut in, furious enough that my eyes widened. Hard enough that for a fleeting moment, I was glad he didn’t run the streets. Relieved I wouldn’t have to face him on sainted terms.

  He’d given me pause.

  And for that, I punched him in the perfect face.

  With my metal fucking fist.

  Kaboom goes the shitsuit.

  He didn’t even see it coming; why the fuck would he? I’d played by his rules. Now he played by mine. My arm vibrated with the impact, forced him into a spin. His grasp loosened enough that I tore free and landed in a crouch then immediately stepped up to a fighting stance he’d never mistake for play. Fists ready, I stared him down when he straightened. Blood dribbled from his mouth, upper lip split deep enough to turn his top right teeth into a gory peepshow.

  Cracked one. Served him right.

  Raising the back of his hand to his mouth, he blotted at it without looking away from my eyes. Turned his head just enough to spit half a tooth and blood to the once-white floor, adding his mess to mine.

  Fuck him. He made his own mess, throwing me in here.

  “That,” he said in deep, rasping tones I’d never mistake for anything but blind fucking savagery, “was your freebie.”

  My back heel turned. Just enough to brace, to test that ultimatum. But before I could do anything, the door slammed open. Armed goons in tactical gear filed in at a pace that wouldn’t leave room for maneuvering between steel batons.

  Two came at me right off the bat.

  I pivoted on that same foot, sinking down into a low stance.

  “Stop.”r />
  Another deep-throated demand. The diamond steel in Malik Reed’s voice defied natural ability, and he wielded it with surgical precision. The two sec-goons froze, immediately easing into readiness I hadn’t expected from mere security.

  Well. At least that was better than anything his analysis department could come up with.

  I straightened slowly, keeping the guards in my sights as I bent to pick up my clothes. My smile was no less bloody than Malik’s grimace. I gifted him with it. “See you around, Malik.”

  “Go home,” he said flatly. If his lip hurt, if his teeth ached in the cold seeping through the tear, I couldn’t tell. “Cool off. We’ll try this again when you feel like acting like an adult.”

  Yeah. Right. I had nothing to say to that. It killed me to let him have the last word. An order, no less. But I was just angry enough – tired, scared, strung out – that I couldn’t push it.

  The guards shifted aside to let me pass. More waited in the hall, Manticores held loosely. Nobody else passed me as I made my way out. Every muscle taut, I forced nonchalance I didn’t feel. Step by step. Exit sign by exit sign.

  I ended up in the lobby of the Mantis offices, stumbling through a door I’d never used before. The light pierced my skull with shattering precision. I forced myself to step into it, barely avoiding Hope’s inquiry. It softened into a worried, sympathetic stare. Like she wanted to help. She watched me take those steps, clothes clenched in my twisted fist, and said nothing.

  Neither did I.

  Nothing for nothing, huh?

  I felt her gaze drilling into my back as I stepped into the elevator. It closed on that silence and gave no fucking relief.

  I’d earned nothing here but the satisfaction of punching Malik Reed. Nothing but the risk of tying my name to Mantis Industries. No answers, no help, no quarter given.

  And as it turns out, decking Reed in the face wasn’t as satisfying as I’d expected it to be.

  20

  My secret hideout wasn’t all that removed from the usual shitty places. Busy enough that nobody paid attention to anybody else, removed enough that I’d be unlikely to run into familiar faces. The area wasn’t in my usual turf, and the city is too big to know everyone everywhere.

  I wasn’t the only saint to duck into the area, either, and I doubt I was the only one who avoided doing it during normal hours. Fortunately for me, there were multiple ways in and even more ways out. Meant I could get my face off the grid for as long as I wanted to. Runners have avoidance down to a science.

  There are places scattered between zones, technically part of the districts they’re in but also oddly distinct, that are little but rows and rows and rows of narrow tenements. Townhouses, I guess, but stacked up like a crooked puzzle game meant for a six year-old on the impatient end of the scale. Ads are slightly fewer, but litter is higher.

  Aside from the extra security I’d tacked on – my usuals: toxic capsules launched when my hand didn’t hit the imprint, wires set to blow – the single door had deadbolts and more from top to bottom. Wouldn’t stop a rocket launcher, or even some battering ram heavies, but I banked on the secret part to help with that.

  Dragging my sticky, gritty, sorry ass into the place took far, far more effort than I wanted to expend. I’d barely even made it into the district when I’d all but collapsed under my own weight. With adrenaline worn down and every nerve screaming for relief, I trudged my way through blistering heat and crackling fury in the slim hope of some shuteye.

  For once, I wanted to rest. Needed to rest.

  I couldn’t risk tackling anything else without pushing my nanos beyond what I’d already demanded from them. I still had to straighten my fingers. Still needed a recharge.

  And a shower.

  And a real bed.

  And…

  And instead of all of that, I stepped into my narrow entry, let the door slam behind me, and landed face first on the scuffed floor. The impact barely even registered under everything else. It was all I could do to breathe, taking in the cool tiles against my sweaty, bloody skin and the freedom of being off my feet.

  Regurgitating the past twenty-four hours was not on my to-do list.

  The failed source on MetaCorp, Incorporated – a setup by the cunting Good Shepherds. Indigo’s refusal to include me on any runs, unwilling to recommend me to anyone else. Muerte’s news. Shit, Muerte even showing up.

  This last stupid job with the crowning shits of all shitty teams.

  And nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Just a bunch of punching assholes and getting my ass shot at, my info put on the market and–

  “Gritfucking ratsucking motherfucking…” I was running out of ways to express myself. Giving up, I finished with a snarled, “Fuckheads.”

  Didn’t help. Nothing short of killing every single smeglicker on my case would. And maybe a drink.

  I forced myself to my elbows. Or elbow, as the seam at my shoulder pushed too hard into reinforced cartilage set around it. It crunched in ways that resounded in my gray matter. Smegging technical meatbaggery.

  Clenching my teeth, I dragged my knees up. Struggled to shove my weight upright, cradling my metal arm with the crook of my other. My busted fingers faced the wrong direction, grotesque in every way.

  I grimaced.

  Booze first. I had to have some buried somewhere. Bracing my good shoulder against the wall for support, I locked my thigh muscles and managed a semblance of upright. My boots thudded heavily, an uneven process as I made my way through the small space.

  Didn’t have much. A few bits of furniture Hope had insisted I get – not that she’d know if I did. A bed; my first in a long time. Some cabinets. A cheap replicator for the clothes I printed up on the regular. No kitchen. Not a lot of these places had one. Most eat out at one of any trillion foodbelts.

  “Finally,” I muttered, spotting a few bottles discarded haphazardly by the bed. I staggered to them, relieved to find two held enough booze to start the process, and the third was almost full.

  Tequila. The shit that runs like sewage.

  And causes shit to run like sewage.

  It couldn’t possibly get any worse than that. I downed the first two and half the third before I shoved the first joint of my index finger into a dresser drawer and closed it hard enough to catch bone. The dresser held my backup weaponry. Made it heavy enough to do this.

  With a sharp jerk, and a ragged run of swear words I made up on the spot, the entire finger snapped into place.

  I did it three more times.

  Then again over all four at the same time, where the last joints met the palm.

  Finished the third bottle of tequila so fast, I hit empty before my nanos had finished clusterfucking the first finger.

  Cold sweat congealed amid dried blood and worse, sending tremors up my spine and down into my arm. My fucking stupid hammerhumping piece of shit nanofactoried diamond steel arm that still hadn’t. Cunting realized. It. Was. Gone.

  “Screw,” I said on a hard inhale, “all of you.”

  And now, if nobody minded, I was going to take a godforsaken shower. Radiation set to sandblaster.

  I didn’t want to get blood all over this bed.

  21

  Maybe I’d stayed too long in the radiation blast. I was still vibrating in place, my skin seared nearly raw. The ends left of my bleached hair had melted, leaving gooey strings all over the standup cubicle.

  With the razor in my hand droning loudly and a half-empty bottle in the other, I stared into the spotted mirror and carved off the last quarter of my hair. It piled to the spotted floor, faded white edged with a dark coffee brown.

  Wasn’t sorry. Didn’t care one way or another. I had no real attachment to my hair. Long or short, white or brown or black or blue or any shade I wanted, it didn’t matter. With my height, whipcord body, intense hazel eyes and the aggressive bone structure under my mexi-anglo complexion, I knew I strutted it in every way but cute. I was beyond fine with that.

  The
buzzed remains of my dark hair would be cooler, and most of all, wouldn’t offer any more opportunistic cunts the temptation of a handhold. I’d had enough of that one.

  I dropped the razor, took a swig of bad tequila. Bracing my right hand on the counter, I let my head sink down, chin to chest. The razor still thrummed, left rattling on the aluminum surface.

  Tired. So tired. So very frustrated. No Indigo. No team. No useful intel from the Battery location and no information on Knacklock’s Kern or his people. No clues who leaked the video, and unhappy with the part of me who believed what Malik had said.

  I was waiting on Indigo to track Hevin Kern, waiting on Muerte to lock down the fuckhole who’d targeted me. Waiting on Malik to pull his little lace panties up and deal with his shit.

  As for Lucky…

  I wasn’t ready to tackle that one yet. I didn’t know how, if I should. Didn’t know if I was overreacting, either. I’d spent ten friggin’ years building my cred out of Lucky’s shadow, grateful for his education and respectful of his part in it. I’d come into my own, and he’d treated me like a real merc – blooded and proven.

  Now I couldn’t tell what was mine and what was his push behind the scenes.

  I felt like it shouldn’t bother me. So why did my throat squeeze when I thought about it?

  No, no, no and no. All no, all the time. I ran it through my head over and over.

  Going on the aggressive was only getting me screwed. I raised the bottle to my mouth. The smell of the stuff seared my nose hair, helping to distract me.

  “Goddamn, your ass only gets better.” A husky compliment edged with gravel, familiar and right fucking behind me.

  I dropped the bottle, whirled around. The glass hit the counter and miraculously stayed upright. The bathroom spun. I had to brace myself against the steel edge to get the room to un-tilt. “Pissing hell!”

  Muerte grinned, a somewhat blurry crescent of white over vivid purple. I squeezed my eyes into a narrowed attempt at clarity. “Keslake, bebe. Your door was unlocked.” She eased in to lean against the door frame, thumbs in her front pockets.