Here’s where we should give a round of applause to my editor Tiffany Shand, who edited manuscript despite being on her death bed. The doctors said it was the damned closest thing they’d seen to a weaponized ebola outbreak. If you dig her work, find her online at https://eclipseediting.com/. Any errors remaining in Tyche’s Crown are my fault! She gave me a lot of red text I ignored.
My usual — and undying — thanks go to my Writer’s Coven, who stepped in at crucial parts of this story and tell me to stop being a dick. You guys are the best. A bow to Cassie, Frances, and Kate.
A special nod to Ioa Petra'ka for Scrivener help. Upgrading software mid-production is always risky, but having a lifeline takes all the pain away.
My final thanks is reserved for my Rae. Our life is a blessing. Let’s keep exploring the hard black, together, forever.
— R. P.
January 2018, Wellington
EXCERPT: UPGRADE
CHAPTER ONE
THE GREEN NEON flickered behind the bar, as tired and listless as any of the patrons. The bartender watched him, one chromed arm working a dirty rag over a dirtier surface. His eyes were underlined with a smatter of hanzi, the logograms giving off a soft phosphor blue bioluminescence. A couple of teenage ganguro girls were making out in a dark corner, the pastel of their eyeliner garish with the green from the bar. Bright clothes whispered as they rubbed against each other.
Carter had said this was the place. The point of origin. Someone had come in here, dropped some credits into the old terminal on the back wall, made a play to buy company assets.
“Hey. Pal.” Mason put a grainy photograph down on the bar. A side shot of a man, sunglasses on, greasy hair over a face gone soft and ugly. Carter had uplifted it from the terminal. “Know this guy? A buyer.”
The bartender didn’t look at the photo, his gaze touching the bottles stacked up in front of the flickering neon. The dirty rag paused. “I never heard of that mix. Been making drinks a long time now.”
Mason tapped his finger on the photo. “It’s a popular drink. Exactly the thing you’d get in this part of town.”
The bartender shrugged. “Drink like that, might be expensive.” The rag resumed motion, the bartender’s chromed arm picking up the green light and pushing it around the bar top after the rag.
Mason saw the hanzi under the bartender’s left eye flicker, the glow stuttering before coming back on clean and smooth. He pressed some greasy notes down on the bar next to the photo. “I understand. Maintenance. Got to keep the kitchen in working order.”
“Exactly.” The rag stopped moving for a moment, then started its motion back up. Mason caught a reflection in the chromed arm as a man walked in from the street. A sharp gust of night air followed him in, the faintest hint of sewage mixing with the acrid scent of the rain. The bartender nodded at the newcomer. “It’s killer out there.” The photo and the money were gone, whisked off the bar as if they’d never been. The bartender moved further down the bar, filling a cocktail shaker with dirty ice.
The newcomer sat down next to Mason, a hit of too-strong Davidoff cologne hanging around him. “Mind if I sit here?”
“It’s a free country.” Mason didn’t turn, taking in the expensive suit cuffs out of the corner of his eye.
“That’s the biggest lie I’ve heard this week.” The man shook water from his coat, throwing the heavy jacket over a vacant barstool. “Hasn’t been free since they invented the credit card.”
“You don’t seem to be suffering.”
The man gave a quick laugh. “Business is good. What can I say?”
The bartender pushed a glass tumbler in front of Mason, the ice nestled in around a rich amber liquid. The algae in the drink sparked a bright pink, flecks of light flashing in amongst the amber and ice. “Your drink.”
Mason nodded his thanks, taking a sip. The liquor was rougher than he was expecting. He coughed. “Christ.” He saw the splash of white as he set it down, a scrap of paper stuck to the bottom of the glass.
The man next to him gestured at the bartender. “Whatever he’s having.”
“You really don’t want to do that. Last time I order the house speciality, that’s for sure.”
“I can handle it.” The man put some cash down on the bar. “These throwbacks need to get linked. I hate cash. Too… dirty.”
“At least it’s quiet.” Mason took another swallow of the drink, then looked again at those immaculately tailored cuffs. He looked back down into his drink, reading the address written on the note before looking back up. “It’s probably as good a place to die as any.”
There was a heartbeat of silence before the pressure built in the air. Mason felt the lattice react, its prediction routines making his hands grab the edge of the bar and heave him over the top of it as the blast wave hit. He felt himself get tossed against the back wall, the perception of time slowing as overtime flowed around him — Mason could feel the fibers in his jacket stiffening to take the impact. Glass and liquor rained down on him from the shattered bottles above the bar. His optics flicked as they adjusted contrast, first to the flash of light then to the shadows dancing in the bar. A single neon filament flickered above Mason, stuttering out the last of its life in refracted green before the bar went dark.
“I’m glad you appreciate your situation.” The man’s voice came from the other side of the bar. “No offense. Like I said, business is good.”
“None taken.” Mason planted his feet against the bar, bracing himself in the narrow space. He pulled the Tenko-Senshin out from under his jacket, the whine of the weapon soft in the darkness as it came to life. The nose of the weapon tracked the sound of the man through the bar as if it had a mind of its own. “Reed Interactive?”
“Good guess. But no — Metatech. Apsel?”
“Yeah.” Mason swallowed. Careful — Metatech means milspec bionics. “What are they like?”
“Metatech?” The man paused. “They sure as shit provide better backup than Apsel.”
Mason’s smile glinted in the darkness. “What makes you think I need backup?”
The man chuckled, the sound moving towards the door. “Buddy? You look fucked to me.”
There was the sound of the front door opening, followed by a thud as the grenade rolled in. Mason rolled away, scrambling to the back of the bar. He hit the door to the kitchen as the explosion went off, tossing him across the room and into the short order stove. He fell hard, then pushed himself upright. His optics flickered in the darkness — goddamn EMP — then switched into thermal, the intense bright square of the Tenko-Senshin’s energy pack picked out against the blue black of the floor. He picked up the weapon, feeling the cool calm of the hard link as his palm gripped it.
Only an amateur would rely on an EMP grenade against a syndicate asset. Top shelf bionics barely noticed. Only an amateur — or someone who really did have the arrogance of backup.
“Mason?” The link flicked into life, her voice clear and cool inside his head.
“Now’s not a good time, Carter.” Mason walked back to the door out to the bar. Something was on fire. His optics adjusting back to visual light as the heat from the flames scored the centre of his vision with white. “I’ve got a bit of a thing going on here.”
“That’s what I’m calling about.” She paused. “Don’t go through that door.”
“You checking up on me?” Mason looked through the cracked glass of the small window set into the door. He could pick out bits and pieces of what the bar used to be under the jumble of tables and chairs, a mess of plastic and wood veneer. “I didn’t know you cared.”
“They used energy weapons. The signature is quite clear from here.”
“Plasma?”
“Looks like.”
“Jesus. You get cancer from those things.” Mason edged the door open, the snout of the Tenko-Senshin pushed out ahead of him.
“No.” Carter sounded annoyed. “You get burning from those things. It would kill you, and you would hurt
the entire time you were dying. You were lucky. And careless. You’re not going to be alive long enough to get cancer.”
“Like I said, now’s not a good time. You can hector me later.”
“Why not just go out the back?”
“Two reasons. First, they’ll be expecting that.” Mason stepped through the kitchen door, his feet crunching on the broken glass of fallen liquor bottles.
“The second reason?”
“The bartender did me a solid. Gave me an address. He’s in here somewhere.” Mason cocked his head. “What. No snappy comeback?”
“It’ll be expensive.” Carter sounded doubtful.
“Put it on my tab. Are there some budget cuts I missed the memo on?”
“I’ll call a medivac.” The link went dead.
Mason stepped over the still form of a gang banger, flung from the centre of the energy strike. He looked down at the body, shaved head face down against the dirty floor, then scanned the rest of the room. The radius of damage was from where Mason had been sitting at the bar, more or less. His optics drew a line on the overlay back to the booth that was the point of origin. No sign of the ganguro girls that had been there, the booth black and empty. A fluorescent light stuttered briefly to life, then went dark as the sprinklers kicked in. Muddy water trickled listlessly from the ceiling for a brief moment before dying out, loose drips of dark water sticking to the ceiling nozzles.
He found the bartender sprawled backwards against a broken table. The bartender’s chrome arm was gone, the stump smooth and pale — cheap work without anchoring. Or maybe the guy just didn’t want to get that close to the metal. Mason did a scan, his HUD picking out the injuries. He knelt down. “Hey.”
The bartender coughed, the sound ragged and wet. “I tried to… Anyway. Did you get the address?”
“I got it.” Mason nodded at the door. “It’ll keep a few minutes longer.”
The bartender grabbed at Mason’s bicep with his flesh hand. “You don’t understand. They’re killing us.”
“Killing you?”
“The rain. Your buyer. That’s what’s for sale. Don’t you know?” The bartender coughed again. “Will you—”
“That’s the plan.” Mason stood up. “Who was it?”
“What?”
“Who did you lose to the rain?”
The bartender looked up at him, the firelight playing across his features. The blue had faded out of the hanzi, leaving grey marks like scars. “My brother.”
Mason nodded down at him. “Try not to move. A medivac’s coming.”
“I can’t afford that.” The man’s eyes turned pleading. “I — just leave me here. I’ll be ok.”
Mason looked down at the Tenko-Senshin, the weapon’s hum a gentle touch against his hand. He moved towards the door. Before he stepped out onto the street, he looked back. “It’s on the house.”
“Which house?” The bartender tried to push himself upright. “Who’m I gonna owe for this?”
Mason didn’t reply as he walked outside into the hissing rain, the door scraping shut behind him.
• • •
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Tyche's Crown Page 30