by Jeff Somers
“Thanks. In twenty then.”
Materiel sketched a salute and melted into the Dole Line. Gatz stood close to me as we pretended to join the line. “That your Vid anchor?”
I nodded slightly. “That’s her. Let’s see if we can get her off the street.”
We wandered. We didn’t know London. In some ways, all the cities were the same: half-ruined, never rebuilt after the Riots, and continually razed a little more every time there was a food riot or something. New York, especially Old New York, the original city, before urban spread had absorbed most of the other cities on the seaboard and formed the huge, endless city it was today, was a snarling mass of people, people, people-
people crushed into the streets, into the few livable apartments, into the rare legal taverns and the hundreds of temporary gin mills. The gray mass of men and women roiling through the streets was a permanent fixture. Sure, you wandered above Twenty-third Street in Manhattan and things thinned out as things got richer, but I didn’t think there was an inhabitable area in New York that wasn’t packed with people. London was different. It had the same razed look, the same crumbling buildings, and the same remnants of the Riots, but there weren’t any people. The streets were comparatively empty, winding off who knew where. In Manhattan, you could let yourself be carried along by the tide of people and know exactly where you’d end up. In London, I got the feeling that it was all narrow, winding streets, and the space made my skin itch. I felt exposed. And in New York, things had been crufted back together. Rubble cleared, windows boarded up, spared furniture rescued and reused. London looked like entire neighborhoods had just shrugged their shoulders, packed up, and left.
Gatz and I wandered, keeping the dirty river on our left and letting her keep us in sight, until we were on a wide but deserted street. At one time it had edged the river, but recently the river-a dirty, brown-flavored sludge flowing stolidly past us-had topped the embankment and lapped halfway across the broken pavement. When the time was right we ducked into the shadows offered by a wall of rubble dumped there decades ago and waited. Across the river from us was a hemisphere of rusted metal, a huge spoked contraption half-buried in river sludge, leaning at an extreme angle but somehow peaceful in its stillness. It was bent slightly, and I tried, briefly, to imagine it upright and suspended in the air again, but it was hard to imagine anything whole and functioning again.
She appeared a few minutes later, clean and coiffed and wearing more on her back than I’d ever possessed in my whole fucking life. It hurt my eyes a little just to look at her, someone who ate real food, who bought new clothes whenever she wanted, some girl playing at a profession because she was bored. The only legitimate jobs to be had, aside from maybe being a Crusher, didn’t pay enough to survive on-everyone who’d lived the streets, like me, knew that. The only people who could afford to have jobs were rich. I watched her pass our hiding spot, bold as brass because she was convinced nothing could happen to her, that the whole SSF would spring into action if she was so much as stared at rudely. It made my heart sing to follow her silently for a few seconds, and then reach out and wrap my arm around her neck, cupping the hand over her mouth to cut off the squeak of protest she managed.
“If I flex my bicep your neck will snap,” I whispered into her ear. “You believe me?”
After a moment, she nodded.
“Good. You’ve been following me, Ms. Harper. Bad idea.” Kev stepped in front of us. “I can’t have Vid reporters doing stories on me, now can I? Let me introduce my colleague Kev Gatz. He’s going to have a look at you.”
She tensed in my arms, not sure of what was coming, and probably believing the bullshit the Vids pumped out about the jobless mass they ruled over: that we were without conscience, without honor, without souls. Some of us were, but I liked to think there was still honor, still some humanity. I breathed in the smell of her hair-clean and perfumed-and swallowed involuntarily, shifting my weight to keep a sliver of air between us.
Gatz lifted his shades and I averted my eyes. “Ms. Harper, look at me.” He sighed.
I frowned. “Kieth said you didn’t need to look people in the eye.” Harper rolled her eyes toward me and then back toward Kev, trying to see us both simultaneously.
He shrugged. “I dunno. I can’t do it without eye contact. It’s like a block or something.”
And then, just before-just a split second before-the barrel of the gun touched my ear, I heard the faintest rustle of a coat, the faintest hint of someone behind me. I barely moved my head, and the gun was in my ear. I thought, Fucking hell, who the fuck moves that lightly?
“Mr. Cates, a pleasure,” a deep, roughly accented voice said quietly. “Please ask your friend to put his glasses back on, as I have no intention of looking at him.”
I nodded, not moving. “Go ahead, Kev.”
After a moment, the gun was removed. “Very well, Mr. Cates, you can move if you wish.”
The voice was calm and sounded amused, as if there was no worry over me making any sort of move against him. I released the reporter, who stood there in a Gatz-induced daze, and slowly turned. A few feet away stood an old man-at least fifty years old if he was a day, with a shock of white hair over a permanently pink face-dressed all in black, quality clothes, not flashy. The gun he held casually on Gatz and myself gleamed in the damp storm-light: a silver-plated, custom Roon model.
He looked me up and down, a hint of a smile on his clean-shaven, lined face. “You move well, Mr. Cates,” he said cheerfully, “but you have a bad habit of assuming that if you can’t see something-say, anything behind you-it can’t hurt you.”
I studied his face-he was the oldest man to ever hold a gun on me, that was for sure. I didn’t recognize it. “I don’t know you, do I?”
His smiled widened subtly. “Of course you do, Mr. Cates. I’ve been Gunning since before you were born. I’m sure you’ve heard of me. I admit I’ve been lying low for the last few years, but I’d like to think the good work I did for the cause in Ireland is still spoken of.”
I shook my head. “You’re telling me you’re Canny Orel?”
The old man just raised a snowy eyebrow.
Gatz grunted with sudden, unexpected animation. “Can’t be. Canny Orel’d have to be like fifty years old. He’s dead.”
I hesitated, because in a way it made sense. Canny Orel was a man who had killed upward of three hundred people, never been tapped by the System Pigs once, who’d founded the Dъnmharъ, and who had retired rich and healthy. I knew I wasn’t in that class, but I’d lived to a ripe old age myself, on the streets of New York, and it took skill to sneak up on me in broad fucking daylight.
And… I wanted to believe it. Here was someone who’d survived, who’d spent his life just like me, crawling from one emergency to another, who’d killed people-but better than me, because Canny Orel had always killed people for a reason, for a cause. Not just for money. Whatever he’d done before Unification, Orel had killed for Saoirse in the cause of Irish independence. When that had ultimately failed in the face of the newly constituted SSF, he’d formed the Dъnmharъ, an organization of Gunners that, while profit-motivated, had only taken jobs assassinating System officials or SSF officers. As far as I knew, Orel was the only person who’d killed SSF officers and lived to tell the tale… until me. So far. Canny Orel had been the best, and he’d done it for a reason. I wanted him to be standing here in front of me.
“Gentlemen,” he said, his smile disappearing. “You can call me Mr. Orel. Now, enough of the fanboy bullshit, eh? There’s business to attend to.”
Sudden panic rippled through me. This was no fucking coincidence, I thought-the man had been hired, sent after me. I shut my eyes. I didn’t know if it was Moje or the Electric Church or who, but someone had gone out and spent top dollar for the best there was to cut me down. At least I knew when they spoke of me back in Pickering’s, I’d be the guy cut down by the legend. I’d be legend. Whoever had found him and hired him, I’d at least have that.
And I thought longingly of the Monks and their nuclear batteries. I thought of Brother West, going mad, but alive, always alive, forever. I was suddenly and inexplicably sure that I was about to die.
I eyed his gun, trying to figure a way past it, an angle. I didn’t see one. Heart pounding, I nodded. “Okay.” I wasn’t going to beg him. I wasn’t going to embarrass myself. I wanted Canny Orel to go away thinking I was the hardest ass he’d ever encountered.
“Good show, Mr. Cates.” He racked a shell into the chamber. “Now tell me: Where in fuck is that little slimy bastard Ty Kieth?”
XXI
THE MOST LIKELY OUTCOME OF THIS LITTLE ADVENTURE
01100
“I’ve heard of you, you know.”
We walked through London, Gatz in the lead with his sunglasses on despite the rain. South to the crumbling bridge with cracks wide enough to require a few heart-rattling jumps, past the sprawling monument to broken glass and twisted steel railings of what had been Waterloo Station-whatever the fuck that was-and finally into the maze of twisty little streets, all the same. I’d thought I’d cleaned up pretty well, but both Gatz and I were unkempt, unshaven, and unsavory-looking compared to our new friends. Marilyn Harper walked with us, Pushed to follow Gatz and keep her mouth shut. Then me, starting to feel a little under the weather, still unarmed, and with some asshole named Jerry Materiel holding twenty of my yen, gone.
And then, shining like a new penny, Canny Orel, the most famous Gunner in history. Or at least of the last twenty years, which was pretty much the same thing.
He looked famous. He looked rich, fat, and sleek, although he still moved with astonishing speed. His skin was dry and papery, with a pink cast. His hair was white, but expensively cut. His hands were so quick he didn’t bother to hold the gun on me as we walked, and I still didn’t dare fuck with him. There was a lush, sick scent of success hanging around Canny Orel.
“You have?” I said.
“Indeed, mate. Heard a few tidbits. Always sounded to me like you were more lucky than talented. Looks like you stepped in it this time, eh?”
His voice was deep and melodious. It sounded like he was subtly singing everything.
“So, just out of professional courtesy, why are you after my Techie?” I asked.
“Out of professional courtesy, mind your own fucking business,” he said flatly, as if he said it five times a day.
As usual, the city felt deserted. Gatz was smart enough to meander a little, buy some time. I didn’t know what I was going to do, since I was convinced I couldn’t deal with Orel-not without a gun, certainly, and even if I’d been packing something more than my sharp wit I wasn’t sure I’d be able to tackle him.
“Your fucking Techie, Mr. Cates, robbed me blind. I’ve been seeking him out for months,” Orel finally growled. “That little piglet can disappear. Say, I could give you a taste of the recovered yen, maybe, for leading me to him. A finder’s fee, we could call it.”
Honor among thieves, I thought. Orel felt bad about making me give up my own man for execution, and he was trying to smooth my feathers. It made me think maybe I had some small currency with the old man.
“He gave me the impression he was hiding from the SSF.” I kept walking.
Orel snorted derisively. “We’re all hiding from the System Pigs, Cates. Mr. Kieth is hiding from me especially.”
I cleared my throat and tried to keep my voice steady, deciding to take a calculated risk. “I don’t think he’s got any money, Orel.”
There were a few steps in silence, rain pattering softly against my face. Then: “Well, he’s your man, Cates. Perhaps you have some money-”
A thrill went through me as a plan began to coalesce.
“-or maybe I’ll just gut the thieving bastard and sleep better at night. Who’s the twist?”
I looked at Marilyn Harper’s back, my thrill of hope fading a bit. “Vid reporter. Recognized me from someplace.”
“Fucking dilettante,” he spat. “They own fucking everything, but they’re bored. Don’t hire someone who needs a fucking job, just play at it until you move on to something else.” I felt him staring at my back for a few steps. “Awful quiet and cooperative, thanks to your friend there,” he said quietly. “But she’ll have to go.”
I frowned. “We can handle her.” I had no affection for rich girls playing reporter while my friends swam through shit every day trying to feed themselves either, but there was something savage about just shooting someone who got in your way. Something primitive.
“Really? How?”
I kept my eyes on the back of Gatz’s head. “We made her see things our way. Didn’t we, Marilyn?”
After a moment, she nodded stiffly. “Yes.”
“She’s going to film my exploits,” I said brightly. “I’m going to be famous.”
Orel grunted behind me. “It doesn’t look like your man can keep her under his thumb for long, the way he’s sweating. Let’s cut the crap and get to your base, so I can resume negotiations with dear old Ty as soon as possible.”
Gatz started to glance back, and my heart skipped a beat, but Orel gave me a shove.
“Eyes forward, Mr. Gatz. I’d hate to have to kill you, but I wouldn’t lose sleep over it either.”
Orel knew more about us than I liked. At the factory, I tried my last play to save Ty as much grief as possible. The place looked sewed up and deserted as we approached. Feeling the familiar buzz of adrenaline and terror, my back to the man I was pretty sure would be my executioner, I pounded on the front door and shouted. “Kieth! Hey, Kieth, let me in!”
Orel was in motion before I could knock a second time, slamming my head into the door hard enough to knock me on my ass for a few seconds and slipping silently into the building. I spent a few moments profitably staring up into the light rain, until Gatz’s sallow face filled my vision.
“Well, you sure handled that like a superhero, Avery,” Gatz said in a strained monotone, most of his attention bent on keeping Harper under control. A light film of sweat covered his waxy skin.
“Fuck you,” I moaned, sitting up and rubbing my head. “It’s Canny Orel. The man was murdering people when I was nursing. He was an assassin for Saoirse, just before Unification. Trained by the Irish government before it Unified. So cut me a break.”
“If that’s Canny Orel,” Gatz said, helping me to my feet, “I’ll eat your shoes.” The front door of the factory suddenly popped open, and Kieth was pushed roughly out. Orel grinned right behind him.
“Come on in, Cates. I am not without honor. Let’s discuss terms.”
I glared at Kieth, who stared at me with wide, terrified eyes. “Fleeing the SSF, my fucking ass. I should let him kill you for not warning me about this.”
Kieth didn’t say anything. Behind him, Orel held a shining, silver-plated gun in each hand. “Don’t worry, Mr. Cates,” he said. “Kill him I shall. But as I said, we can discuss compensation. Step inside, please.”
I felt feverish. Gatz and I sat with Marilyn Harper on the floor. Milton and Tanner-who had allowed Canny Orel to walk in unopposed-sat near Kieth’s equipment, which hummed and beeped randomly, unsupervised. The Droids, after swarming around in a tizzy of excitement giving Kieth endless reports of intruders in the building, had finally been silenced by the Techie. Orel studied the Monk with obvious perplexity, holding Kieth by the scruff of his neck.
Gatz leaned toward me slightly, his face waxy and yellow. “I can’t hold on to her much longer, Ave.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You’ve got something big cooking here, don’t you?” Orel said cheerfully.
I kept my face blank. “I do. I need Mr. Kieth to do it, too. Maybe we can strike a deal.”
Orel looked at me without moving his head, his eyes just sliding in their sockets. I imagined I could hear his eyes moving-sudden metallic scrapings.
“Mr. Cates, I can’t imagine what deal we could strike. I hired this cocksucker seven months ago on
a project of my own. I paid him a significant amount of money. This same cocksucker then bought himself every little toy he’d ever wanted off the black market-most of which I see here-and ran out on me. Me! I can still hardly believe it.”
“Let me make you an offer, Mr. Orel,” I said carefully. “If you don’t care for it, well, you put one in Ty’s ear and I start looking for another Techie. But I think I can get back your lost investment, which must have been considerable to inspire such passion.”
Orel turned away from the Monk to face me, pushing Kieth around like a rag doll. The Gunner smiled, his eyes moving easily from person to person without appearing in any way worried. He opened his mouth to reply, but Kieth suddenly spoke up.
“He’s not Canny Orel,” he said.
The hand on Kieth shot to the Techie’s throat and pinched, cutting off Kieth’s voice and breath. I stared at the old man and the old man stared back at me, a slight smile twitching on his face.
“Care to test me?” he said conversationally, sounding bored.
“Care to test all of us?” I said, trying to emulate the smooth, steady disdain of his voice. I failed miserably. Whoever this guy was, he certainly scared the shit out of me, Canny Orel or not. “Let’s hear what he has to say.” I gestured at Kieth.
The old man scanned the room, did some math in his head, and then shrugged, releasing Kieth, who immediately began to gasp and cough.
“Kieth?” I prompted.
He looked up at me with damp, red eyes, rubbing his throat. “Come on, Cates,” he choked out. “There are like fifteen Canny Orels Ty’s seen personally. It’s good marketing, using that name.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, rubbing his head. “He’s possibly Dъnmharъ, but he is not the Canny Orel.”
For a moment I was unable to decide if this was an improvement on my situation. If he wasn’t the greatest Gunner who ever lived, that was good for me. But being faced with, say, the third-best gunner that ever lived… well, it didn’t make me want to do cartwheels.