Upgrade

by Richard Parry

  “Maybe.” Mason tossed the piece of metal back in the box.

  “We can burn it.” Carter paused briefly. “I’ve got the satellite online.”

  “For Chrissakes. About time. Can you kick off a strike?”

  “It seems the best way.” Carter paused. “Let me send this back up the line, see if they want to send a recovery team here.”

  “Like I said, there’s nothing to recover. We’d be better of nuking the site from orbit and finding out which circus back at the ranch is screwing with us. If I got sent out here to recover a, let’s call it an unauthorised reactor, right, but we’ve got another team in play? Someone in logistics is getting fired.”

  “See, it’s that kind of commentary that keeps you in the field.” Mason could hear the smile in Carter’s voice. “Look, let me just clear it. At least it’ll solve the problem around the paperwork.”

  “Paperwork?”

  “The homeless guys.”

  “Right.” Mason started to pick his way back through the darkness. “Carter, there’s something I don’t get.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The hallucinations?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re real.”

  Her voice was wry. “They wouldn’t be hallucinations anymore, would they?”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Mason shuddered, thinking about the walking corpses, about a dead man from Nebraska named Smith. “I just blasted a dead man’s corpse to pieces. Or I thought it was a dead man. The only thing left behind was an arm. You saw it. On the feed.”

  “Yeah. I saw it.”

  “So — here’s the thing. What did Specialist Smith see in me? What made him and his buddies attack a syndicate man? That’s not healthy behaviour, even without the rain.”

  “What am I, the Oracle of Delphi? Come back in. We’ll get you in the chair.”

  “I think it’s getting worse, Carter. And I think it’s worse here. At the centre of — whatever this is. Whatever was in this box.”

  “You’ve done your job, Mason. I’ll put this in the report.”

  “Good.” He sighed. “We don’t want this getting out.”

  “What getting out?”

  “Well — that’s the thing. I don’t know. But you can be damn sure some reporter would have a field day if they found Apsel equipment at the centre of…” He trailed off.

  “I know.” She laughed suddenly. “It’s lucky.”

  “What’s lucky?”

  “That I’ve got the satellite back. And… Here we go. I’m cleared for a strike. Get yourself clear.”

  Mason pulled himself back up the stairs into the foyer, walking through the crumbling entrance to the old hotel. He gave a last look around before walking back out into the rain.

  The Suzuki fired up as he approached, cowl extending from the front. The lights on the dash blinked at the night as the rain fell harder. Mason climbed on, kicking the drive into life.

  “You ready?”

  “Do it.” Mason twisted the throttle on the bike bike, pulling away from the hotel. He could feel a pressure building in the air, and then —

  Light, bright as a sun, stabbed down through the atmosphere. Clouds peeled apart, boiling and twisting as ionised atmosphere burned in a pillar of fire. The beam played across the hotel, fire raging up from the ruins as lightning flickered across the sky. Bits of concrete were flung into the night sky, leaving burning trails across the night. The orbital laser continued firing as Mason pulled further away. He watched in one of the mirrors as a dust cloud spread out from the sight of the strike, rain already pushing it back to earth.

  It probably wouldn’t even be on the news tomorrow.

  Mason twisted the throttle a bit more, ignoring the flicker of red lights on the dash as the machine compensated for the buffeting of the blast. The front of the bike skipped and pulled up from the ground as he put on more speed. “Carter?”

  “Yes, Mason.”

  He coughed. “I need to get in the chair.”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry about the report. I said I’d take care of it. Good night, Mason.”

  “Good night, Carter.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Apsel building stretched up to touch the sky, the silvered glass exterior reflecting the clouds that blanketed the city. The ground, clear and even for a kilometer in every direction, was smooth concrete and neatly trimmed lawns brought into relief by lights scattered across the premises. Mason looked up at the tower as he approached. Flight traffic was steady in and out of the tower, air cars taking early execs in — and out.

  He opened a channel when he was five clicks out, still in the streets of the city. It would be bad to get a case of mistaken identity. “Mason Floyd. Specialist Services field operative. Requesting clearance for entry.”

  “Copy your ident, Mr. Floyd. We’ve already got you on approach.” The man on the other end of the link sounded bored.

  “Just a courtesy call. You can never be too careful.”

  There was a pause, then a slight laugh came down the line. “You know, that’s true. Especially after last week.”

  “What happened last week?”

  “Someone wasn’t careful. You’re clear to use Bay Six.” The bike’s HUD projected against the inside of its cowl, a map laid out in green and red sparkling into iridescent life. He ignored it in favor of a mirror of the map that snapped into place on the overlay in his optics.

  “I got it. Thanks.” Mason kicked the bike up a gear, picking up speed. The reactor was barely working, the drive low and quiet. He opened a different channel. “Carter.”

  “Mason.”

  “Ah, you’re still up.”

  “I live for the job, Mason. You know that.”

  “You should get out some. Put on a dress and some pearls.”

  She snorted. “I’m not a pearls kind of girl, Mason. You know it’s 5:30 in the morning?”

  Mason grinned inside his helmet. “No rest for the wicked, Carter. Beds aren’t for people like you and me.”

  “Not the way you use them.”

  “Which brings me to—”

  “No. No it doesn’t. I’ve woken up Sasha. She’ll meet you at processing.”

  “She’s going to be grumpy.”

  “Do you want your clean done grumpy or not at all?”

  “I’ll take grumpy.” Mason was approaching the base of the main tower, bringing the bike in to a wide concrete driveway lined by tall barriers. The Apsel falcon was etched in relief on the ground, big enough to be seen from the air. Bay 6 was written in big red letters above a wide metal door, other languages written in smaller type underneath it. They all said the same thing, more or less — get lost, go away, this is not the door you’re looking for. It’d be bad press if Apsel gunned down some throwback who couldn’t read English. Automated turrets looked down on him from behind razor wire, tracking his progress. “Those things creep me out.”

  “It’s protocol.”

  “Each one is like its own little eye of Sauron.”

  “The eye of… Oh.” Carter paused. “I didn’t know you read. Fiction, I mean.”

  “Christ, Carter. I’m not some kind of barbarian. I read books.”

  “Books without pictures?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Don’t listen to what they say about you. I’ve always said there was more to you than—”

  “Carter.”

  “What? Get out there. Join a book club or something.”

  “Hey.” Mason pulled the bike to a halt in front of the door. Green light washed over him as lasers imaged him and the bike — just a last-minute check, right? He remembered Smith-Benne, who’d come back with a small detonator on his car. They’d relied on perimeter radar back then. Mason had been on the investigative crew — they hadn’t found all of Smith-Benne’s body. “One more thing.”

  “What is it, Mason?”

  “Thanks, Carter. I appreciate you… Your help.”

  There was a paus
e before she said, “Sure thing, Mason. Anytime.” The link clicked out.

  Mason tapped his fingers against the handlebars. With a clank, the doors started to open, yellow rotating warning lights licking the walls around him. When it was high enough he gave the throttle a small twist, entering the belly of the Apsel building. Even at this hour it was busy, techs moving around, servicing vehicles, loading munitions, and waving clipboards at each other. He wove the bike through the people and machines, pulling up short to let an enforcer clank in front of him. It stopped with a hiss of hydraulics, torso swiveling to face him. He looked up past the spread wings of the Apsel falcon and to the weapon launchers on its arms, then into its face. “Harry. How you doing?”

  “Pretty good, Mason.” Harry pivoted, articulated feet clanking against the ground. “Just in for a service.”

  “Rough night?”

  “It’s the rain, man.” Harry’s voice echoed out through the room, and lights flickered up his chest plate. A red one was pulsing insistently. “I don’t know how you norms handle it.”

  “Thought you guys weren’t hit by it?”

  “The visions?”

  “Sure.”

  “Yeah, got no problems with the visions. Sealed up nice and tight in here. No, this is plain ol’ acid rain, Mason.”

  “I’ve got a rain coat.” Mason shrugged and his helmet lapped back into his collar. “Still. I’m in for a check up too. Maybe some sleep, if I can scrape up the time.”

  “Ha.” Harry shrugged, big metal shoulders moving up and down with a whine. “If you’d do the conversion—”

  “No way, man.” Mason nodded towards Harry’s mid section. “I like eating too much.”

  “It’s not that bad. You never have to wonder whether your diet’s low-carb or not.”

  Mason snorted. “Sure, whatever. Take it easy, hey?”

  “You got it. Have a better one.” With a hiss Harry swiveled away and clanked across the bay. Mason kicked the bike back into gear and let it purr itself towards an empty park.

  He stepped away from it. “Park it. Service mode.” A brief flash came from the instrumentation on the dash, then the bike eased down, the rimless hubs pulling in towards the chassis. Mason grinned to himself — no matter how many times he saw it, it reminded him of some kind of animal stretching, his bike doing yoga’s Downward Dog. The armored fairing flared wide, exposing the fusion drive, other mechanical components opening outwards like a metal flower. Mason turned away and walked towards an elevator. A tech would be along shortly to look after it.

  Meantime, he would —

  Something ghostly flitted at the edge of his vision, but was gone when he looked. God damn the rain.

  Meantime, he’d best get himself to that med tech. The elevator doors opened silently in front of him, and he stepped inside. “Medical.”

  “Medical, confirmed.” The elevator spoke with a British accent. A German company in America with a British butler. Now that’s globalization.

  ⚔ ⚛ ⚔

  The chair sat in the middle of the room. Cold white leather. Looked like a dentist chair without the happiness. At least it was padded.

  “Hey doc.” Mason shrugged off his jacket, dropping it into a bin by the door. “Sorry to get you up so early.”

  Sasha looked over at him, giving him a quick glance up and down. She was sitting at a console, a computer in front of her, a hint of a smile on her face. “You know it’s never too early, Mason.”

  Mason grinned back at her. “Don’t be like that. You’re married.”

  She waved her ring at him. “Rock you can see from space and all. What of it?”

  Mason pulled his shirt off over his head, dropping that in the bin after the jacket. “You shouldn’t tease a man, that’s what.”

  She stood up and walked to the chair, patting the seat, her ebony fingers contrasting with the white of the seat. Mason hadn’t been able to work out if the black was genetics or cosmetics. Not that it mattered, but he figured if it was cosmetics he should get the name of her guy, real top-shelf work. She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “C’mon. You know I don’t get many kicks in this job. Do a girl a favor. Hop in the chair.”

  Mason sighed, mock serious. His pants and underwear dropped in the bin. “This is harassment, you know.”

  “I know. Get in the damn chair.”

  Her eyes didn’t leave him as he walked across to it, then settled in. Mason coughed. “Jesus. Isn’t there something in the hippo oath—”

  “Hippocratic, Mason. Hippocratic. You make it sound like I got my degree on safari.”

  “Sure. Isn’t there something in the hippo oath about doing no harm?”

  “Yeah. It’s not the top of the list, but it’s in there. Why do you ask?”

  “This chair. It’s cold.” Mason shivered.

  “You big baby. I’ll prep you a nice, warm cup of harden the hell up for when we’re done.” She looked at him for a moment. “You want me to get you a blanket? Maybe a teddy bear?”

  Mason sighed. “We’re good. Doc—”

  “It’s just plasmapheresis, Mason.”

  “Remind me again why the bionics can’t do this?”

  “Your nanotech needs something to fight.” Sasha sighed. “We still haven’t isolated what it is in the rain that makes you sick.”

  “You okay, doc?” Mason leaned forward. “You pull another all-nighter on this?”

  He watched as Sasha clenched her fists. “It’s just that nothing’s working anymore.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Well, not nothing. But less than everything. I can’t find anything in the plasma that looks like it shouldn’t be there.” Sasha stepped away from the chair, walking back towards her workstation. “I’d say it’s adapting.”

  “Adapting?” Mason shifted in the chair. “Why’s this plasma…”

  “Plasmapheresis.”

  “Why’s it still working?”

  “I’m going to suck out your blood and spin it in a drum. Separate out the crap. If I had to guess, I’d say that the hostile vector still needs to obey the laws of physics.” She tapped on her keyboard a few times. The environment shield lowered from the ceiling around the chair, as wide as the grating on the floor. “I guess that’s why they call them laws. Wait a sec, you might feel a pinch.” An articulated arm descended from the ceiling, needles at the end of it. Mason watched it as red light lased out, scanning his arm, and then the needles slipped home.

  He winced. “That’s more than a pinch. You enjoy your job too much.”

  Sasha glanced over at him, then gave him a wink. “Only with some patients, Mason. Only with some. We draw straws to see who gets to work on you.”

  “I should be fla— What? You draw straws?” Mason watched as the machine started to pull his blood out, the red stretching up the arm and into the machinery in the ceiling. A hum started from somewhere. “I’m not a piece of machinery. Flesh and blood, Sasha. Flesh and blood.”

  “Mostly.” She gave him another wink. “I’ll be sure to raise your concerns with the ethics committee.”

  A returning line of red made its way from the ceiling down the other needle. It started to enter his veins. “Christ that’s cold.”

  “It’ll warm up soon. You’re supposed to be a tough guy.”

  “Say, doc.”

  “Mason?”

  “These hallucinations.”

  Sasha turned away from her keyboard. “What about them?”

  Mason thought back to the arm that had been left burning on the ground in the basement. Hallucination my ass. “I don’t think—”

  “Mason.” Carter’s voice rattled around in his head. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Fastest way to get a trip to psych.”

  “Sasha’s ok.”

  “It’s your brain.” Carter clicked off.

  Sasha was still looking at him. “You don’t think..?”

  “Never mind.” Mason sighed. “How long’s this
going to take, anyway?”

  ⚔ ⚛ ⚔

  She was waiting for him in his apartment when he made his way up. Come to think of it, he didn’t feel so tired — you can sleep when you’re dead, Floyd. The taste of something nasty was still in his mouth, a relic of whatever cocktail Doc Coburn had given him before sending him off. He pushed the door closed quietly behind him. “Hey.”

  She looked up from where she’d been sitting on the couch, plush black stretching out around her. “Hey yourself.”

  “Get you anything? A drink?”

  She stood up, the sheer robe she was wearing falling open a little at the front. “I thought the whole idea of this was so you didn’t have to worry about buying me dinner first.” She smiled at him, then raised her hand towards the TV, the art on the walls. The view. “Quite a place you’ve got here.”

  “It’s just where I crash. I got another place, out of the city.” Mason walked to the liquor cabinet, pouring a splash of whisky into a glass. “I hope you don’t mind. Had quite the day. I need a drink.”

  She looked at the bottle in his hand. “Jesus. Is that a Macallan?”

  He gave her a glance over his shoulder. “You know your whisky. Yeah. It’s a 57-year-old.”

  Her bare feet brought her a few steps closer. “I… Hell. Can I try some?”

  Mason pulled out a second glass. “Sure.” The liquor splashed and gurgled as he poured. “Here.”

  She took the glass from him, fingertips brushing his. She breathed in deep as she raised the glass to her face, then took a sip. “God. That’s good. That’s really good.”

  Mason nodded at her, then reached into a drawer. He pulled out a pack of Treasurers, offering her one. “Smoke?”

  “Christ. You smoke Treasurers too?” She took one from the packet, her nails a shiny red next to the silver filters. He lit it for her and she took a deep pull. “You sure know how to show a lady a good time.”

  “You should see me at a restaurant.” Mason stepped over to the stereo rack set into the wall, selecting a low beat. The antique Bang & Olufsen spread it out silky and smooth — nothing made today sounded quite so pure. He put down his cigarette and whisky. “Do you dance?”