Upgrade

by Richard Parry

  Sadie pulled at her harness, tightening it. “You kill anyone today?”

  A couple of seconds passed. Then Haraway said, “I shot people. Things. I don’t know if I killed them.”

  “Exactly,” said Sadie, then she sighed. “Look. In there?” She jerked a hand over her shoulder at the gap in the wall. “There’s a girl in there who’s just…” She looked at Haraway.

  “No,” said Haraway. Her voice was soft. “I get it. More than you know.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” said Haraway, straightening up. She pulled the harness on, turning up the lamps. The beams of light pushed against the dark, rubble casting fingers of shadow against the walls of buildings. “It’s really quiet, isn’t it?”

  “Long may it last.” Sadie pulled a toolbox out of the van, holding it out to Haraway.

  “We don’t…” Haraway looked at the box, then took it from Sadie. “Everything here is ruined. It’s broken down, used up. You can’t just kick start a reactor.”

  “You’re the scientist,” said Sadie. “I’m here for moral support.”

  “Moral support?”

  “It’s what I call sticking an axe in anything that tries to eat your face when you’re coming up with the real answer.”

  Haraway laughed. “Fair play, Freeman.”

  Sadie leaned back against the van, the smile falling from her face. “Seriously, though. I play guitar. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “You’re not a prisoner, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Haraway.

  “Know that,” said Sadie, scuffing a boot across the ground. “You don’t give prisoners weapons.”

  “Right, you’re a part of the team.”

  Sadie straightened, the movement sudden and sharp. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

  Haraway took a couple of steps back. “I don’t—”

  Sadie stalked towards the other woman. “You people shoved me in a van. Took me away. Brought me here. I’m not a part of your team.” She spat the last word out, brought her face close to Haraway’s. “I’m not company. I’m never going to be company.”

  Haraway held a palm up between them, the movement slow. “I… Freeman? I didn’t plan it like this. You weren’t supposed to be here.”

  Sadie stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  Haraway turned away, shoulders slumped. “It doesn’t matter. Just… I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to be here.”

  Sadie grabbed at the other woman’s shoulder, turning her around. “Hey. Don’t turn away—”

  Haraway slapped her hand away, her eyes bright. The lights of the harness were in Sadie’s eyes, and she couldn’t make the other woman’s face out. “Don’t touch me. You have no idea what this has cost me. You’re worried about being on an unplanned camping trip? Shit happens. Deal with it.”

  Sadie felt the anger inside her, curling a hand into a fist. Steady, Freeman. Listen. Not what she said, but what she meant. She let her hand relax. “Haraway?”

  “What?” The other woman was rigid. She looked like she wanted to stay and run at the same time.

  “Haraway? Do me a favor.”

  “Oh, you want a favor? From the company?”

  “Not really,” said Sadie. “Could you turn your lights off? They’re in my eyes.”

  The moment stretched between them, then Haraway laughed, a broken fragile sound. She turned the harness off, the lights snapping out. “I’m—”

  Sadie held up a hand, the movement almost lost in the darkness. “You really think you can do it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Haraway. “It’s been hard to get here.”

  “What?” said Sadie.

  “I… Wait. What were you asking?”

  “I wanted to know if you can get the power back on.”

  “Oh. That,” said Haraway. She looked out into the street, quiet for a moment. “I thought you meant… It doesn’t matter. I can get the power back on, sure.”

  “How? You said you can’t just kick start a reactor.”

  “That’s right,” said Haraway. “We’re going to find the distribution centre. Be a building, lots of cables.”

  “Ok.”

  “We’re going to hook the reactor in the van up to it.”

  “We… What?” Sadie looked at the van. “It’s a van. It’s… It can’t possibly power a town.”

  “Why not?” said Haraway. “It’s got a reactor in it. One of our reactors. This is what we do, Freeman. The Federate makes clean, limitless energy.”

  “Reed put an Apsel reactor in their van?” Sadie frowned, the expression lost in the dark. “I thought you syndicates tried to shop local.”

  “When we can,” said Haraway. “Reed bought this van from someone who used our reactors. Sort of a supply-chain thing.”

  “You know a lot about this,” said Sadie.

  “I make reactors,” said Haraway. “I know where we sell them.”

  “Ok,” said Sadie. “How are you going to make a reactor in a van power a city? I didn’t do much science, but they seem different levels of hard.”

  “Now that,” said Haraway, “is a trade secret. You leave the science to me. If we can get to the distribution centre, I can make this van give us as much power as we need.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Julian blew on his coffee then put the plastic lid back on. “I’m sorry, Master,” he said. “I still have some… trouble understanding how this works.”

  Prophet stood with his back to Julian, looking out the window of Reed Interactive’s Tower Prime. The clouds stretched grey and ugly in patches over the city below. Julian was standing back — quiet, respectful, or the pain starts again — but he could see the hint of lightning in one of the clouds. “You do not need to understand,” said Prophet. “That’s not your function.”

  “Of course, Master.” Julian swallowed. “It’s just that—”

  “Does pain excite you? I’ve known some like that.” Prophet didn’t move. “They usually need to be discarded. Too hard to shape, like clay that’s been already fired.”

  “Master, please,” said Julian. “I — I feel that if I don’t do my best for you, you may hurt me more in the future.”

  Prophet turned slowly towards him, the dark skin of his face pulled tight with anger. “If it’s my wish that you feel pain, then you’ll be hurt.”

  “I—” Julian fell silent.

  Prophet’s face stilled, and the man said, “But you have been a useful tool, Julian Oldham. It is a poor craftsman indeed who doesn’t listen to the hum of the tools under his fingers.”

  “Master?”

  “Speak, Julian Oldham. Speak, and I will listen.” Prophet turned back to the window. “If your words do not please me, then there will be pain. Do you understand?”

  “I… I understand, Master.” The man could lift the thoughts from his head, so this was some kind of sick test. Was there a right answer? Julian looked down at his hands, the shake in them something that hadn’t gone away since —

  His mind shied away, and he looked back up at Prophet. “Have you heard the word incentive, Master?”

  “Incentive,” said Prophet. “The taste of this word is familiar, but I do not ken it’s meaning.”

  “It is… It is a mechanism of sorts, to influence the way that people make decisions.” Julian was breathing short and shallow, the fear pulling at his thoughts.

  “Ah,” said Prophet. “Is this from those imbeciles in Marketing? They have not pleased me. Vacuous, intangible morons.”

  “No, Master,” said Julian. “I mean, yes Master, Marketing are morons. I mean that this is not their term. This is…” He struggled with the words. “It is economics.”

  “Is this to do with this thing you call money?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “I do not need money.” Prophet was still staring down at the city. “Do you see how they scurry and run? All those people, living their lives. They do it wrong, make mis
takes, cause harm, disrupt the natural order. I, Julian Oldham, have been sent to return them to their place. Order will be restored.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Julian. “It is just that—”

  “You contradict me?” Prophet almost turned, then his shoulders relaxed again. “No. I said I would let you say your piece. Say it and be done.”

  “The right incentive makes people do a thing, and at the same time believe they wanted to do it.” Julian almost stopped then, his nerve fading away. Sack up. Make the play. He found his voice without thinking about it. “They do what you want, thinking it is their choice.”

  “They will do that anyway.”

  “Of course,” said Julian. “But they will do it faster with the right incentive.”

  “Explain.”

  Julian took a half step forward, then stopped himself. “Out there, your… agent—”

  “The demon. What of it?”

  “As you say. Your demon—”

  “It is not mine, any more than my arm is mine. We are the same thing, Julian Oldham. Why is this so hard for you to understand?”

  Julian could feel the touch, light and delicate as a feather, as Prophet reached out. The pain would start soon, and then —

  “You still want to speak your mind, while you have one,” said Prophet. “Know that my patience grows short.”

  “They hide, Master,” said Julian. “Before you came, people learned to hide from the rain.”

  “You can’t hide forever.”

  “No, but if people didn’t want to hide, how fast would you get what you wanted?”

  Prophet stood quiet for a moment. “You think that the right incentive would make them stand in the rain as it poured down, burning at their minds?”

  “Not quite, Master,” said Julian. “I was wondering, how flexible is the demon?”

  “Flexible?”

  “Yes, Master. Let me explain,” said Julian. As he did, he watched Prophet relax, then start to smile.

  This time, it wouldn’t hurt.

  ⚔ ⚛ ⚔

  “I don’t get it,” said the fat man.

  “You don’t have to get it,” said Julian. “It’s a simple proposal, Eckers. You sell it, you keep a percentage.”

  “No,” said Eckers. “Why you coming to me? You Reed assholes have all kinds of channels for this. You already distribute stuff at a scale I can’t touch.”

  “Sure,” said Julian. “We distribute a lot of medicants that have been proven to be profitable. That have a history of clinical trials.”

  Eckers moved behind the bar, favoring a leg. “Trials.” He held up a tumbler, and Julian nodded. Eckers splashed amber liquid into the glass and pushed it over. “Last time you were here, you broke my shotgun and blew a hole in my roof.” He tipped his head up towards the roof, the ragged edge letting light and rain in. Both fell in roughly equal measure against the old concrete floor. It cast the inside of The Hole into a relief that wanted to stay covered in quiet gloom.

  “No,” said Julian. “Those Apsel motherfuckers blew a hole in your roof.”

  “Whatever,” said Eckers. “You’re all company to me.”

  “The difference,” said Julian, “is twofold. First, we’re coming to you with a profitable endeavor. You make money, we make money.”

  “Fine,” said the other man, pouring himself a glass of the amber liquid. “What’s the other thing?”

  “We’re going to fix your roof, Mr. Eckers,” said Julian. “In fact, we want to invest in your business. We want you to be one of our… strategic partners.”

  Eckers spat the liquid out on the bar, coughing loud. “The fuck did you say?”

  “Bernie — do you mind if I call you Bernie?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, sure. Call me what you like.” Eckers swallowed, wiping his chin.

  Julian reached over the bar, taking the bottle from Eckers. He tipped it into a clean glass, the liquid lapping and sloshing. He held it out to the other man, and Eckers took it. “Bernie, we want to enter into a business contract with you.”

  The shorter man looked at Julian, eyes squinting. “What’s the catch?”

  “There will be paperwork, of course.”

  “No, the real catch.”

  “Ah,” said Julian. “Well, first of all, this medicant won’t be Reed branded. There is some… commercial sensitivity at this early stage.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s new, Bernie.” Julian pulled at his shirt — too tight, I haven’t walked around outside in a while — then put the bottle down. “There is some risk.”

  “It could blow up in my face,” said Eckers.

  “It could,” said Julian. “Without risk, there is little chance of reward.”

  “Right,” said Eckers. “What’s your risk?”

  “Can I be honest, Bernie?”

  “You can be whatever the hell you like,” said the man. Julian could see him sweating through the arm pits of his shirt.

  “The risk for us is that you’re unreliable scum,” said Julian. “You will probably try and sell us out. You may steal our product.”

  Eckers swallowed, but stayed silent.

  “You see, Bernie,” said Julian, “we could lose a whole line of product over this. It’s a risk we’re willing to take, to … expedite the product to market.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes,” said Julian, “because if that happens we will fucking execute you.”

  Eckers started to laugh, then stopped when Julian didn’t join in. “You always negotiate like this?”

  “This isn’t much of a negotiation,” said Julian. “I’ve made you an offer. It’s a generous offer. A partnership from a major syndicate in your shitty, gasping, desperate business. All in exchange for marketing a new medicant, a product people will line up down the block to buy. If you don’t want the deal, we’ll take it somewhere else.”

  “No,” said Eckers. “No, I want the deal.”

  Julian smiled. Of course you do.

  ⚔ ⚛ ⚔

  Julian drew on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a stream. He was standing outside The Hole, a name more apt than Eckers knew.

  Or maybe he did. “Your real problem,” said Julian to the empty sidewalk, “is that you let your greed get in the way of your good sense.”

  He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Eckers’ memory, not anymore. Julian pushed himself away from the wall, walking back to his car. He managed to stifle the trembling in his leg by clamping a hand down on his thigh, driving fingers into the weak flesh of it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The light hit the bottle, making the inside look like bottled fire. Mason pushed one of the glasses towards Laia. “Sip. Don’t gulp.”

  She looked at the glass, eyes wide, then nodded. She picked up the glass, slow and uncertain. “We… What is this material? It is clear, but remembers the sea.”

  “Remembers the…” Mason frowned. “It’s glass. It’s made from sand.”

  “Glass? The glass we make is not so clear. Your artisans must be very skilled.”

  “I don’t know how they do it.” Mason shrugged, tossing back his whisky in one throw. He made a face, then put the tumbler back down on the table, old and tired like everything else. The top of it was faded, marked by time, but he was sure that it used to be a children’s table. Smiling cartoon characters drawn into the surface with old style ink tried to stare up at him through the distance of time. He didn’t know their names, which syndicate had owned the IP of making forgotten children happy. Doesn’t matter. “It doesn’t remember anything.”

  “You can’t hear it?” Laia looked at his glass, then tipped the entire thing back. Her face screwed up, and she coughed. “It burns. How can you drink it?”

  “I said sip, don’t gulp.”

  “You didn’t sip.” She frowned at him. “You… You just drank it.”

  “Practice,” said Mason, pouring more of the whisky out. The liquid burbled and laughed as it stepped from the bo
ttle. “I practice a lot.”

  Laia took the glass again, staring into it. Her voice was quiet. “I felt it die. I pushed against it, and it… It just stopped. It was afraid, and it didn’t want to die.”

  “That’s why I practice,” said Mason. “They never want to die.”

  Laia took a sip, cautious, tentative like a mouse. Her face didn’t screw up so much. “It smells very good. Like the earth on the moors.”

  “Peat,” said Mason. “And smoke. I like the smell more than the taste.”

  “You drink this to… Make the memories go away?”

  “No,” said Mason, tossing the whisky back again. She’s just a kid. You put a kid in that position. “I drink to make myself go away.” He watched as the girl chewed that one over, pouring himself more whisky.

  “Why… Why do you…”

  “Why do I do it?” Mason pushed his tumbler around in front of him. “It pays well. I’m good at it. It needs doing. It’s all win-win.”

  Laia frowned at him, sipping at her whisky. “Heaven is very strange. Not at all what I expected it to be.”

  “Sales and marketing,” said Mason. “You always end up buying shit you don’t need with money you don’t have.”

  “Why would I buy shit?”

  “Now that’s a good question,” he said, topping up her glass. “I don’t think anyone really knows.” Mason leaned back, the chair he was in creaking, dust falling as the joins flexed. “I don’t have the answers.”

  “Who does?” Laia took a swallow of her whisky. “I came here… I stepped through the gate to find you. If you don’t know, then who?”

  Mason picked up the bottle, shaking it between them. “The whisky has a few of the answers.”

  “You drink this for enlightenment?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Mason put the bottle down. “You sure are a weird kid.”

  “I…” Laia looked down, then back up at him. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry,” said Mason. “It’s refreshing. I spend my life around a bunch of suits, stuffed shirts with bad haircuts.”