Upgrade

by Richard Parry

  “No, I buy it. But it still leaves one question.”

  “I figure it leaves a hundred. What’s top of your list?”

  Mason threw her a look. “Where’s Mike?”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. No bonus was worth this.

  Sure. They’d said if he signed up Floyd, there’d be a little something extra in it. They’d even said that it might be a good opportunity to try actual teamwork.

  What the hell did he need a team for? He was doing fine.

  The ground slid past below him, dead grass and trees giving way to the bright night scape of the city. Rain lashed below him, but he stayed dry, wedged in the well of the gunship’s landing gear.

  Amateur hour, that’s what it was. He’d never have been able to stow away on a Metatech gunship. Probably not an Apsel one either, but who knew with them. They figured the real power was in electricity.

  Guns were power.

  He’d seen Floyd drop like a sack of puppies, going down under the combined effects of the gas and the taser effect arcing through it. He’d played dead himself, his milspec upgrades coping just fine with whatever crap Reed had fired at them. He’d cracked open an eye as Reed men stepped through the group of… What? The crowd had acted like zombies from a movie, then just stopped in their tracks. About the same time as the orbital strikes had finished, but he figured that was coincidence. Whoever was pulling the strings at Reed master control didn’t need ‘em anymore, just tossed the remote control back on the couch and moved on.

  They’d grabbed the kid. And his sister. His stomach had soured at that, but he waited anyway. Milspec upgrades or not, he wasn’t going toe to toe with a gunship and a bunch of Reed assholes.

  They’d grabbed the doctor as well. Haraway. That had clinched the deal for him — the kid was personal, sure, he’d have gone after him anyway. But Haraway was worth dollars on the line, big fat zeroes for an acquisitions contract.

  Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid shit.

  He’d turned off his link as he’d crawled through the gas, his overlay tugging at his vision as the electricity arced through the gas. These Reed guys might be into porn in a big way, hand on the stick, but they had scanners same as anyone else.

  And, seriously. That gas was a good trick. He’d have to get the boys in the lab to work on it. Seemed pretty effective against upgrades and normals.

  He’d waited for the Reed men to be focused on picking up the three bodies, then did a quick roadie run to the gunship, staying low. He’d ducked to the left first, ramming a piece of shrapnel into the struts, making sure it was wedged in good. Then he’d rolled like a whisper of shadow to the right, clambered up inside the landing gear, and held on.

  They’d found the shrapnel. They couldn’t fix the damage to the shocks, so had taken the flight with wheels down. It was slower. It kept him alive.

  It was cold. His hand slipped on the gear and he almost tumbled out.

  Stupid.

  The kid was going to owe him after this. More than a beer.

  ⚔ ⚛ ⚔

  There was something wrong with the Reed tower. Sure, the place was normally dark, a kind of grey black against a grey black city. It rained a lot in Seattle. Hard to keep things bright and festive, right? It’s just — normally there were some lights on, a few guys doing the rounds.

  It was a syndicate combine, after all. He’d seen the sat images, and they all had intel on how the guard patterns worked. A couple guys on the inside as well, people who fed them solid information about how things went down.

  None of those people had talked about the bodies. No bodies on the sat images either.

  There were people staked around the edges of the roof, bodies arched back, dead eyes staring at the sky. People in suits and lab coats — civilians. Each of them had been supported by something, a strut of some kind, dotted around the edges of Reed’s rooftop.

  It didn’t look like something Jay Montana would be into. The head of Reed was known to be extreme, invested deep into anything that drove a dollar from pleasure. One time he’d invested a cool million in stickers for kids — you licked one side and got a jot of something as a memory slid down your tongue. Kids could paste ‘em on their jackets and schoolbags. Collect a whole set. It was a good investment right up until the black market versions came out. Bunch of kids started getting porn memories.

  Whatever. That was all Reed’s business. Thing is, there wasn’t a good line on dead guys on a roof.

  The gunship flew over the line of bodies, eyes staring upward, and settled itself on the pad. The rain was lashing around, a blast of it spreading out and under the machine. He squinted his eyes against it as water sprayed up and against the black Metatech armor he wore. He waited a few moments, and there it was: the sound of a team moving up to the gunship.

  Weird. Normally there’d be chatter in a group like that. Voices, some communication about BPs or spine fracture or tachycardia. Whatever the brains in medical response wanted to say.

  Nothing. These guys were silent as the grave, their feet slamming against the wet surface of the landing pad. They threw the kid, his sister, and the doctor on a bunch of gurneys and then pushed them back through a double set of doors leading off the pad.

  No. That wasn’t weird. What was weird was the pilots hadn’t even gotten out of the gunship.

  He let himself down from the landing gear, feet slipping onto the concrete without a sound. He moved low and quiet under the machine until he was aft of the doors on the side, then poked his head out for a look.

  Yeah. That shit was weird. Pilot and copilot were still in their chairs, still strapped in. Looking out the windscreen like a couple of mannequins. Or sex dolls, maybe, considering where he was.

  He unclipped his sidearm, the weight of it pulling at his arm. He looked at the pilot and copilot again, then at the double doors. They weren’t looking at the doors.

  He didn’t have to kill them. He looked down at his sidearm, then slipped it back into his holster. Stepping away from the gunship, he turned and walked towards the double doors off the pad. His route took him next to one of the bodies around the roof, and —

  “Jesus!” He jumped a little as the body’s eyes moved, swiveling in its head to track his movements. He dropped the overlay down, a quick scan showing the body cold and blue on thermal. Dead. He flicked back to visual, saw it looking at him.

  “You’re… You’re not supposed to be here,” it said. It was a woman, white lab coat turning transparent with the rain.

  “That’s what you’re going to say?”

  “What?” she said.

  “You’re nailed to a piece of metal, stuck on a roof in the rain. You’re going to ask me if I’m supposed to be here?” He leaned forward, looking into her eyes. “Lady? You got some priority issues.”

  “They know, now,” she said. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, turned and looked. Another of the bodies had turned to face him. It was speaking, same as her, same words coming out. “They will come to get you.”

  “Rock on.” He pulled out his sidearm. “Who?”

  Another added its voice from across the landing pad, almost inaudible in the rain. “Your weapon is useless here. We are legion. We are the night, the cries in the dark, the fear between worlds.”

  “Maybe,” he said, turning back to the doors. “We’ll see.”

  “Warrior,” said the woman.

  “You’re talking to me?”

  “Warrior,” she said again. “Ready yourself.”

  The double doors opened, men in grey Reed armor streaming out, the door vomiting men and women in uniform like a hose pissing roaches. He snapped his sidearm up, the weapon —

  The overlay lit up as overtime flowed over him like a cool rain. The tactical system marked that one as stopping, those two still moving. A third, standing by the door. A fourth, lifting a weapon and wanting to fire now. The overlay marked him as the first to die, and then —

  The si
dearm fired on full automatic, the lattice pulling his arm back and forth like an auto turret. The Reed troops stuttered and fell, tumbling to the wet concrete with the sound of tumbling plastic. More troops came from the door, and he kept the trigger pressed down until they stopped moving.

  The clip dropped from the bottom of the weapon, and he pushed another one in with a smooth, easy motion. He turned to the woman who’d spoken first. “Legion, huh. The night? Bunch of stick mag merchants. That’s all you are.”

  She blinked rain from her eyes. “We haven’t finished.”

  “Yeah you have,” he said, spinning around to face behind him and dropping to one knee. His weapon barked twice, the two pilots from the gunship toppling from the machine and onto the landing pad. He paused for a moment, then stood up. “Did you assholes even get a shot off?” He spat out the taste of aniseed as the overtime faded away.

  “What do you want?” Those eyes were still staring at him.

  “You’ve got a Metatech asset here. Kid, about so high.” He held a hand up just above his head. “I’ve come to get him back. The other two as well. We’ve signed a contract.”

  “I care nothing for your contracts.”

  “I don’t really care what you care about,” he said.

  “What is your name?”

  He smiled against the rain. “Mike. You fuckers can call me Mike. I’ll see the rest of your freak show downstairs in a bit.”

  Mike turned and padded towards the doors, the rain falling off him. He tried not to wince, one of his feet leaving pink prints in the water. Ok. They got one shot off. Damn.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  “I know you’re listening, Carter,” said Mason.

  “I know she’s listening too,” said Sadie. She leaned forward, looking out the windscreen. “It’s really raining, you know?”

  “It’s just water,” said Mason. “I’m tough. I can take a little water.”

  “It’s not just water,” said Carter, the link snapping and popping in his head. “It’s anything but just water.”

  “The visions,” said Mason. “Why aren’t they back?”

  “If I had to guess,” said Carter, “I’d say it’s because the scary freak at the top of it all has a limited attention span.” She sniffed. “He’s only human.”

  “You’re talking to us again?” said Mason. He looked at the Federate building in front of them, the whine of the APC’s drive core humming down behind him. “And where the hell is everyone?”

  “They’re busy,” said Carter.

  ⚔ ⚛ ⚔

  On the seventy-third floor, six men and women approached the stairwell leading down. The elevator shafts were closed off, red emergency light filling the corridor. Doors to the left and right were shut, sealed, overlays reporting a SECURITY INCIDENT LOCKDOWN.

  They were dressed in crisp white Federate armor. It wasn’t going to stay white for long.

  “Sir,” said one of the men at the back. “What are we doing here?”

  “Trying not to die,” said the woman to his left. “I wish we could have the link up. I feel like I’m trying to hit a piñata in a dark room with a tube sock. And there’s no piñata.” The barcode on the back of her armor was underlaid with a name, DEWINKLE.

  The man at the front of their huddle turned around to Dewinkle, sergeant’s stripes looking black under the red light. “You need to keep a lid on that,” he said. He turned to the man who’d spoken first, then pointed at the stairwell door. “Son, we’re going to breach that door. Then we’re going down these stairs. Anyone who doesn’t look like you or me, we’re going to shoot in the face. We’re going to the basement. Orders are to kill everything down there.”

  “Any reason for the face?” The man paused. “What do you mean, everything? Don’t you mean everyone?”

  “Turn of phrase,” said the sergeant. He held up a hand, fist clenched. The team readied themselves as he counted 3, 2, 1… off on his fingers.

  Overtime clicked down around them. Each member of the team knew their role. The breach man at the front kicked the door down, rifle high. Two entered behind him, flanking positions. Their weapons were up, ready to fire at —

  Nothing. There wasn’t anything there.

  They started to relax, the ripple spreading through the team from the front. The sergeant turned around, and said, “Ok, what we’re going to—”

  That was the last thing he said, the auto turret dropping from the ceiling in the corridor. It spun up fast and mean, the rounds tearing through the team, shearing limbs from bodies, precise as a surgical laser.

  Dewinkle had been lucky — she’d flattened herself against the inside wall of the stairwell. She looked down at the… Well, just pieces, really. Pieces of her team scattered around her. She blinked, then wiped red from her visor. “Cease fire! Cease fire! Friendlies!”

  “Oh,” said a woman’s voice from the stairwell. “Friendlies? Damn.”

  “Friendlies,” said Dewinkle. She stepped out from behind the concrete. “The paperwork’s going to be a bitch.”

  “You’ve no idea,” said the woman’s voice. “Dewinkle, is it?”

  “Copy,” said Dewinkle. “Who’s this?”

  The turret whirred to life, a stream of fire and death tearing Dewinkle to pieces. She tumbled into parts, dropping to the floor amongst the rest of her team.

  “My name’s Carter,” said Carter to the empty corridor.

  ⚔ ⚛ ⚔

  They moved between the rows of crates in the hangar. Twelve men and women, weapons ready, links offline. It was walking deaf and blind at the same time, but orders were orders.

  Sanders came to stand next to an empty total conversion chassis. The shell was popped open, tubes and wires dangling from the front. The casing was hinged through the Apsel falcon, breaking through the logo, leaving half a bird visible. She shuddered. “Hate to go that way.”

  “What. You don’t want to live forever?” The man at her elbow flashed her a quick grin, all nervous edges. Gorsky used too many stims, drank them up when the coffee stopped working. “When you go, it’s going to be in your old age.”

  “I don’t think so,” said a woman’s voice, the PA ringing loud in the hangar. The team froze, then quick hand signals to fan out, to cover each other, to provide fire zones.

  Sanders pushed herself back against the chassis, using the big metal arms and legs for cover. She looked out over her rifle, the sights marking the gaps between the crates. “Anyone see her?”

  “Oh, I’m around,” said the woman’s voice. “You want to meet me, do you?”

  “Shut it, Sanders,” said Gorsky. He’d been trying to get into her pants for weeks. Sanders reckoned he still hadn’t worked out why he was still jacking off alone in the shower — such an asshole.

  “You shut it, Gorsky.” Sanders looked up. “Who is this?”

  “The person you’ve been sent to kill,” said the woman’s voice. “That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? The basement. Kill everything that moves.”

  “No,” said Gorsky, signaling with his fingers at his eyes. He mouthed, maybe she’s blind. “We’re just… It’s routine.”

  “What about you, Sanders? You think this is routine?” The woman’s voice sounded curious, analytical. “You figure this is how you’d spend your day when you woke up this morning? Going down to the basement to kill one of your own? Gorsky, I’m not blind. I’m not stupid either.”

  Gorsky froze.

  Sanders swallowed. “I was just trying to enjoy my bagel this morning,” she said. “You’re right. If you’re in the basement, we’ve been tasked. To come down, route you out. If it matters, I’m sorry. I… I don’t like it when we’re not on the same team.”

  The room was silent, Gorsky looking at Sanders like she’d gone crazy. “Christ, Sanders. Fraternizing with the enem—”

  Whatever he was going to say next was lost to the whine of the chassis Sanders was next to powering up. The arc lights on the front flashed on, the big reactor hu
mming like a nest of angry hornets. It stood up, the arms reticulating out and back.

  “What the fuck,” said Sanders, mouth hanging slack. She backed away from it, stumbling over and falling on her ass. She scrabbled back like a crab, her rifle dragged along by its strap. The chassis was empty. No… no pilot. How could it —

  “Firing!” It was Gorsky, his weapon barking out loud in the hangar. His rifle’s rounds spat metal sparks against the side of the chassis, the small arms fire worthless against the armored side of the machine. The rest of the team scattered, taking cover behind crates.

  The chassis swung around to face Gorsky, then stumbled. “Damn. This is harder than I thought… Ah. There.” The chain cannon on the arm of the chassis spun up, the howl of it primal as it stood over Sanders. The cannon drew a line of white and fire through her team, tearing men and women into fragments. Crates of machinery and parts were shattered, torn, metal and shrapnel spraying through the hangar.

  The cannon slowed, stopped. The chassis hummed, then stepped back from Sanders. A red mist was picked up, spun about in eddies through the air by the recyclers in the hangar. “Huh,” said the woman’s voice.

  “Wh… What?” Sanders wasn’t sure she’d heard what the woman had said. Her ears weren’t normal, but the chain cannon had reset the spike levels and she couldn’t hear right. Her legs were slick and she realized she’d pissed herself.

  “I… I thought I was going to kill you all,” said the woman. “Turns out, I don’t have the stomach for it.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? I don’t know,” said the woman. The chassis stamped twice towards Sanders, then leaned down to bring the optics closer. “Sanders, is it?”

  Sanders nodded. She spat out the taste of burnt coffee, her overtime fluttering aside like torn hessian.

  “Sanders, I figure it’s like this. You told me straight. You were honest. I’m here on the last day of my life, and I find that I don’t want to kill you for being in the wrong place, the wrong time, working for the wrong people. It’s that simple.” She paused. “You and me, we share a similar story.”