Necrotech

by K C Alexander

  “It’s...” I scrounged for the right word. “Delicate.”

  Hope’s polite smile compressed into a mischievous line. “You don’t like it.”

  “It’s just...” I spread my hands, as if I could encapsulate the whole room on one end, and me on the other. The contrast between the soft colors and my tough, ink-spattered edge was pointedly ludicrous. “It’s...”

  “Feminine? Soft?”

  “Not even a little bit my style.”

  To my surprise, Hope laughed. “You’ll get over it for a few hours.” She turned, her curvy figure in its pristine black pencil skirt and belted blouse looking as perfectly at home as I did out of place. “The bedroom is through there,” she said, gesturing to a far wall and a double-arch, also lacking in doors. “The bathroom is also there. There’s a shower and a tub, so feel free to–”

  “Hold it.” I didn’t move from my spot in front of the door, weirdly afraid that my boots would leave marks on the floor, but I did raise my voice.

  Hope tilted her head. “Yes?”

  I stared hard at her. “Tub? A real tub?”

  Inquiry turned to deeper mischief in her smile. “Yes, ma’am. A tub. A real bathtub, with water and everything. It’s even hot.” She chuckled as she added, “And it’s completely safe.”

  Holy shit. I mean, holy shit. I could count on one finger the amount of times I’d been in a hot water scrub, and that had been a brief luxury I’d paid dearly for. Even the decent places only had hot water for sinks and maybe a timed shower. A full on bathtub meant gallons upon gallons of water; pure, hot, expensive.

  Hope studied me, her hands on her flared hips. She wore sheer stockings under her professional skirt, her blouse was buttoned to her neck, and her dark blonde hair didn’t allow a single strand out of place. Even her glasses were plain frames, with none of the shine shopped around on the sales feeds. The overall effect was definitely a cultivated air of proficiency, too old for her youthful face.

  “You are welcome to come in, you know,” she said pointedly. One hand gestured at me, an efficient come here as if I were a stray dog needing a brisk order. “The place won’t bite, and you’re not under arrest or anything.”

  “Right.” I didn’t move. “Uh, look, Miss Ramsay–”

  “Hope.”

  I shot her a raised eyebrow. “Is that professional?”

  This time, I think her smile caught her off guard. Wide-lipped and full, it was also crooked – a touch wider at one corner than the other. “You really don’t like it, do you?”

  Sort of. “It’s not the room. It’s a nice room,” I protested. But I offered both arms, forearms up, as if in evidence. “It’s not my kind of room.”

  “You want me to order in some rebar and neon girders?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her dry tone. “Would you?”

  “If you worked for us.”

  Her level gaze was so mild over her smile that I couldn’t tell if she was yanking my chain or was as earnest as an aneurysm. “Seriously?”

  She didn’t snort. I think she almost did, but she cleared her throat instead, shaking her head. The sunlight filtered through her bound hair, picking out glints of red here and there, tossing off a corona of gold. “You’re an odd woman.” She approached me, empty hands swinging idly by her sides.

  I stared dumbly when she stopped half a foot away.

  “Ah...” She gestured. “You’re blocking the door.”

  I moved. “Sorry.”

  “Relax,” she assured me gently. Easy for her to say. My shoulders felt like I’d banded them in cement, and the back of my neck hadn’t stopped prickling since I’d walked out of Malik’s office.

  The door hissed open with a touch to a silver panel, and Hope paused. “Take a bath or use the shower, whatever you need. Just use this panel if you get hungry.” Her eyes sparkled through her simple frames. “We deliver.”

  I eyed the bright, airy hallway behind her. “Are you sure I’m not under some kind of house arrest?”

  “Relax,” she told me again. “Really. It’s a word.”

  “So is ‘trap’.”

  “So is ‘paranoid’,” she replied. “You can walk around all you want, but given your discomfort, Mr Reed figured you’d be better off taking it easy.” Her smile returned, but her brisk tones didn’t soften. “You’ll have a full exam in one hour, so I’ll make sure you’re escorted to–”

  I raised a hand. “Stop. Back up. Revise. I’ll have a what?”

  Hope tilted her head a fraction. The sunlight pooled in her glasses, hiding her eyes. “An exam. It’s standard procedure before any excursion.”

  I backed up a step, putting distance between us and folding my arms. “No.”

  That surprised her. So much so that she adjusted the glasses that didn’t need adjusting. “I’m sorry?”

  “No exam. I’m here, I’ll work with your boss, I’ll work with his professional team, but screw his exam.” If I sounded a little bitter, tough. The fact my ex-team had given up on me still smarted. Hope opened her mouth to argue, but I didn’t care. “If he has a problem with it, Mr Reed can deal with it himself.” Preferably by fucking himself with the implements I’d already suggested he acquire, but I figured I’d let that go unsaid.

  She shook her head. “I’ll deliver the message,” was her reproachful acknowledgment. She said nothing else, stepped out of the threshold. The door slid shut, soundless and quick.

  I glowered at the panel.

  So I was being a little antagonistic. The reasons were more practical than I let on. A SINless has two things going for her: a lack of a Security Identification Number, and complete faith in her tech. If we are smart mercs, we choose our chopshops and street docs with care, and we never, ever let our bodies fall into the hands of people we don’t trust.

  Well, for medical reasons, anyway.

  It’s just good policy. Half our systems are strung together on individual metrics custom tailored to our chipsets, needs and patterns. The last thing I wanted to do was let Malik Reed’s people fuck around with my setup any more than it already was. Annoying him was only part of the fun.

  But it was more than that.

  What if Malik’s people found something? What if he tested my arm, or found some kind of brain anomaly, and used that to keep me off the team? Out of the loop?

  If it were me, I’d do it to myself. Hell, if we were talking standard op, Indigo would yank me so fast, my head would spin.

  No. It was better policy to keep myself to myself. I’d have to find a new doc sooner or later – or clear my cred so I could go back to Lucky – but I didn’t need to risk that just yet.

  I spun in a slow circle, rolling my tense shoulders as I took in the bright, spacious room with its sparse but neat furniture and inset arches. Columns. Honestly. Who put columns inside a living space?

  I wrinkled my nose, finally stepping completely into the quarters I’d been allotted. If I checked behind me to make sure I wasn’t leaving boot prints, at least I was alone to do it. Physically, anyway. I wasn’t positive that these quarters weren’t under surveillance, but since I had no plans to do anything to impede the run – and only minimal ideas to do something dirty in case I had a virtual babysitter – I let it go.

  The space was quiet. Soundproofed, probably. The light streaming in through the wide windows was warm but not uncomfortable, and the place smelled clean in a way that seemed less intrusive than the overly sanitary fragrance of a hospital or that gutwrenching clinical disinfectant I now associated with a lab. I approached the curtainless windows, squinting against the light.

  Pretty view, in a reflective kind of way. Miles of glass and metal, intersected by the byways linking taller buildings together in a crisscrossed grid of streets and overhangs. A spot of green here and there had to be some kind of deliberately cultivated garden in allotted alcoves, and below, cars and people streamed in a jumbled streak of black and occasional glint of color.

  I pressed my left hand against the
glass.

  Durable. Hybrid material, bulletproof. Most of the numbers scrolling through my display meant nothing – one day, I’d sit down and work out all the various digits, but I only bothered to learn what I found immediately useful – but I knew enough to get the impression of shatterproof glass and hardcore security.

  Must be nice, living in all this safety. Like fragile little birds, rolling in the creds. Probably even something of a good life, if it’s the life you want, but who would? Anyone with a SIN is ripe for overwatch. The whole concept of freedom got trumped by the demand for security decades ago. It started with communication taps and bled into everyday existence from there. Maybe you aren’t being watched all the time, but it always bothered me that no one seemed to mind it meant anyone could clock into your freqs simply by pulling up your SIN.

  Granted, most couldn’t read the SIN without illegal tech, but that stuff is only illegal for the people who can’t afford it.

  I guess if you like power with strings and a leash, being a sinner isn’t so bad.

  “Chunk it,” I muttered, turning away. I’d take my freedoms, hard and dirty and bloody as it got.

  I briefly contemplated calling Indigo, checking in with him – see if he got a sweet room like this one – but I discarded the idea. He was... not happy with me. Okay, understatement of the year. He was pissed, which only frustrated me. Not fair, I guess, but come on. I was trying to fix a mess I didn’t know the whole scope of, and it was his sister.

  My girlfriend.

  I winced, rubbing my face.

  I needed to stop calling her that. My words, sharp and angry, echoed in the silent room around me.

  I never said I was marrying her.

  And because I said it, because saying it had made my shoulders loosen some, I’d gone from feeling guilty and responsible to feeling guilty, responsible and a lot like the cunt I was.

  I never did promise her anything but what I had at the time – my attention, mostly. But that didn’t make it any less of a shitty thing to say.

  If we found out that she was targeted with no help from me, would that absolve me of the guilt I carried for stringing her along? Would I be given the chance to make it right?

  How much of an asshole was I that I didn’t think it’d matter? It couldn’t possibly be worse.

  “Balls,” I muttered. That was enough. I couldn’t sink down into all this, not right now. Malik Reed had one thing right: a merc needed some time off before a run, or at least I did. And some downtime after. The what-ifs I said I didn’t like? They tended to double in those hours before a team headed out.

  Indigo had taught me to deal with the details in the days leading up, then take a day off before. It was a system that worked for me. For most of us. I could make the best of the time I had.

  Even if I would have done it with the team before all this.

  A pang in my chest forced me to shake myself before I went right back down that road I said I didn’t want to go down.

  There had to be something better to do.

  Something I could do in some kind of effort to... I don’t know, fix things.

  When the idea hit me, I didn’t even think twice about it. I closed my eyes, sat back on the couch, and uploaded a call through my projection frequencies.

  The room was as it always was, and I didn’t sit in the chair this time. I perched on the edge of the table, legs stretched out and ankles crossed. My arms folded over my shiny red tank-top as I waited for Greg’s connection.

  He didn’t keep me waiting. His persona looked no less worse for wear as he strode into view – a strange mix of digital processing and physical movement that made it look like he blurred into existence. “Riko,” he said in greeting. “This is unexpected.”

  But not entirely unwelcome, I gathered. I flipped him a crooked smile as the walls bled neon advertising and the white door closed behind him. “Are you busy?”

  “Compared to what?”

  “Point.”

  The detective didn’t sit either, eschewing the metal table for the space in front of my outstretched legs. He hooked his fingers into his pockets, a patient stance that drew my eye to the lean shape of his shoulders beneath his brown coat. His badge glinted from a chain around his neck. It didn’t surprise me that his persona still wore it.

  I think most of Detective Gregory Keith’s personality was wrapped up in that badge.

  I wouldn’t tell him this, but it had a lot to do with why I turned down his offer. Some people were born to be cops. They had the attitude, the ability, and the means to deal with the shit. Good or bad, easy or hard, they knew how to cope.

  Problem was, I didn’t know many – saint or corporate assclown – who gave a damn. And I wasn’t sure Greg himself knew how valuable that perseverance was.

  Unfortunately for him, current events trumped idealism. I had a purpose for him.

  “So?” He cocked his head, returning my study with raised eyebrows. His persona’s chiseled features still made me want to laugh, but I could admit they delivered. He was cute. “I can’t get a lock on your frequency. I take it this isn’t a social call.”

  I grinned. “That’s right, you can’t.” Thank you, Lucky. “I’m here to offer a white flag.”

  His eyes lit, reflecting back a snap of poison green as an ad flickered behind me. “Surrender?” he asked hopefully.

  I raised my chin. “Truce, detective. Just a truce.”

  I half-expected that warm glow to bank. It didn’t. His mouth curved up, and he leaned forward just enough to show his interest. “I’ll take what I can get.”

  “Even when it comes with a tech limb?”

  Okay, that was a low blow. It kind of didn’t help my case – especially when his gaze flicked to my folded diamond steel arm and skated away. He shrugged, but didn’t apologize.

  Neither did I. “Let’s keep this honest.” I unfolded my arms, braced my hands on the edge of the table. “I’m not here to talk about you, your wife, or your after-hours inclinations. Word on the wave–” Damn, I was turning into Jax. “Word out there is that you’re on the market.”

  His shoulders tightened. The vaguely sheepish cant to his smile faded to a grimace. “Why do I get the impression you’re not talking about dating?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Crap.”

  “Yeah, my thoughts, too.” I tipped my head to the white door behind him. “You talk to anyone else out there?” He didn’t have to say anything. I read the answer clear as day on his face. “You did,” I guessed before he could try to deny it. “Of course you did.”

  “You turned me down.”

  True, but he was the idiot who’d gone blabbing. “Why do I get the impression you wandered down to the rack and started asking questions?”

  The look he shot me was almost as good as a sigh. “You really think I’m stupid.”

  Yes. Well, sort of. I waved that away. “Let’s try this again, detective. I think I could have work for you.”

  Greg dragged a hand over his adorably – and deliberately – mussed hair, but at least he didn’t look like he was calculating the results on my libido. “Why the change of heart?”

  “Honestly?” I raised one eyebrow at him. “I think you’re going to get eaten alive if I don’t make it clear you’re mine.”

  “Yours?”

  “In my black book, then,” I returned impatiently. Even temporarily. As soon as he signed on with me, I could giftwrap him for Indigo.

  That’s right. I was delivering a cop to my linker.

  It was a multipart plan, and as long as Indigo didn’t lose his shit when I told him I had a pocket cop for him, it might work. As a sweet bonus, it would net Indigo Koupra a decent uniform in his network.

  Sort of like delivering flowers after a fight, except I was the bad boyfriend in this equation and I wasn’t sure Indigo was girly enough to accept it.

  All I could do was try. “Look, pride’s all well and good, but you’re a sinner in blue messing around in s
ainted turf. The rules are different.”

  “Uh huh.” He didn’t look appeased. “So what you’re telling me is that you don’t think I can hack it.”

  Pretty much. Still, it didn’t sound all that encouraging, did it? I straightened, easing to my feet with an exasperated sound. “Trust me, Greg. Once you start to get the lay of the land, you’ll understand. Until then, take the smegging help.”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  I loved that question. It usually meant people were willing to deal – or at least closer to it. “Information, now and again. Sometimes, people. And the occasional freelance job.”

  Greg rocked back on his heels, surprise evident on his artistically enhanced projection. “To kill?”

  I shook my head. “Nah. You’re a cop. Your strength is in that. Any saint worth her shit knows better than to blunt a tool using it for something it’s not meant for.”

  He didn’t like that. I could tell by the way his jaw tightened. “I am not a tool.”

  See? Malik was wrong.

  “Look,” I said, sighing with it, “you want in on this world? This is how it goes. You’re a cop and a sinner, which makes you second to a corp fuckhead in a suit. You’ve got zero cred. You have to start somewhere.”

  “Is this how you started?”

  It was how I was having to start again. My lip curled. “Not quite. I started as somebody’s pet project.” The fact I respected Lucky kept me from worrying on that bone longer than I had to. I was done here. Patience wasn’t much of a strong point for me, and he’d tapped out what little I had left. “Think about it, Greg. And keep in mind what I told you.”

  “What, that I’m a tool?”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. The fact his indignation mirrored the shit I’d flipped Malik for his assessment of Digo’s assets made this even more ridiculous. “No, you idiot,” I growled. “That you’re marked. And I promise, most saints who have reasons to want a cop on the take are going to have a shit ton more tech than me, so consider growing a pair, okay?”