B-spine

by Cam Winstanley

  “And you’ve got guns so I’m fucked anyway,” says Kirsty. “Who did you say you were?”

  “I didn’t,” he says, “but since you ask, we’re in the same line as Bishop. Only for another employer. And with cooler clothing… obviously.”

  “And Bishop is…?”

  “…is many things, babe, but in layman’s terms, he’s one of Meat4 Power’s faceless assassins. He’s the one who’s running the mercwar against Bostov Cryonics.”

  “Which must make you Bostov…”

  “Officially? No.” He pauses to light up a cigarette. “Federal law prohibits corporations from having private militias. We’re designated freelance, although we only ever work for one employer, of course.” The smoke’s deep blue and smells of hospital anesthetic. He pulls something out of his waistcoat and throws it to her. It’s a business card in clear perspex, contact numbers below etched letters reading:

  STEELE & PRIEST

  REGULATED SECURITY CONSULTANTS

  FOR BOSTOV CRYONICS

  “Cool design,” he says. “Steele chose the fonts and the see-through look. She’s the artistic one.” He shrugs, “Guess that makes me the threatening, fire-starting, cold-blooded murdering one…”

  “Who’s after Bishop because he’s after Bostov?”

  He blows smoke rings. “That mercwar in Denver you see on the newsfeeds? That’s just public relations cover for people like me and Steele and Leander Bishop. The real war’s being fought right here, right now, off-camera.” He taps ash onto the polished floor. “But back to the main event, why haven’t you filed a report on Arclights, Kirsty?”

  “You know so much, you tell me.”

  “I hope you’re this stubborn with Meat4 Power too, ” he says.

  “I’ve got their number. Why don’t you call and ask?”

  “Maybe later. Why haven’t you filed? Has he bribed you?”

  “Fuck you, Priest.”

  “Threatened you then?”

  “Would you save me if he was?”

  “Hell no,” snorts Priest. “I look like Captain America? We just want to stir shit up for M4. We think Meat4 Power product killed people in that club because we saw the ambulances outside and that’s PR gold for us. But only you know it and you’re not telling. So why not, Kirsty?”

  She tries to stare him out but feels her eyes fill with tears. She drops her gaze to the floor, beaten. “They blanked me at the club and withheld primary evidence,” she says. “I should have pressed Bishop about it then but since I kind of bluffed my way in, they were holding protocol violations over me. So I gave them an inch of slack and they’ve taken a mile.”

  “And that’s it?” says Priest. “You gave in because they said they’d report you to your boss?”

  “I’d lose my job,” she says, knowing how lame it sounds and instantly forgetting it.

  “Yet it’s working out so well for you now, isn’t it,” says Priest. “You’re job security’s the last thing you should be worrying about now that you’re working for Meat4 Power instead of the government.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it? How do you think it’ll look when they leak footage of every call you’ve made to them in the last few days?”

  She thinks of the deadroom meeting and the calls to Jarrow and she knows he’s right. “What makes you think they’ve recorded them?”

  “Because that’s what I’d do,” he says. “They’ve smeared you and the only chance you’ve got is to get back on track and file that case.”

  “I can’t,” she says. “There’s this guy following me and…”

  “…and you’ve given up, haven’t you? To be blunt, I was hoping for more initiative from a federal employee. Don’t you want to excel? Don’t you take pride in your job?”

  “Hey, I don’t get to go round holding guns to heads.”

  “And I do. But what I do, I do professionally. You should too.”

  “They’ll kill me,” she says, weakly.

  “They won’t even get close. I’ll make one call and I’ll guarantee you an armed overwatch round the clock. Real professional, real covert. Meat4 Power will never know we’re covering you.”

  “And I’m supposed to trust you on that?”

  He shrugs. “They assigned one street bum to push you about and we’ve allocated a four man strike team. Who’s playing for keeps?”

  Priest stands and crushes his cigarette underfoot. Steele covers the window with her pistol as one of the shooters folds the stock on his rifle and slings it over his shoulder. The other boy stands and slowly steps backwards across the room, his aim unwavering. “That’s it?” asks Kirsty, not quite believing it.

  “We came to talk and we did,” says Priest, pulling on a long, sand-colored jacket with a fur-trimmed hood. “You’ve got two days to make Meat4 Power look bad.”

  “I don’t know that’s long enough.”

  “It’s all you’ve got,” he says. “We’ll cover you from here but after forty eight hours, we’ll kill you ourselves so that Feds looking at your Slate will bring a ton of trouble down on Meat4 Power. Like it or not, you’re working for Bostov’s greater good now, babe.”

  Two minutes later, she’s outside watching some little kids pretending they’re fallballers, running the sidewalk trailing tiny toy chutes. Kareem’s rubbing one enormous shoulder, Judy Alexis is grinning. Like nothing happened.

  “Mother… fucker,” says Kareem. “See these bruises here? This girl punches way above her weight.”

  Kirsty trembles and tries to smile but can’t help glancing back at the old couple’s windows.

  “Everything okay?” asks Kareem.

  “False alarm,” she says. “The old lady thought her Boiler was sick but it tested fine.”

  “Where’s your next job?” yawns Judy Alexis.

  “No more jobs,” Kirsty says, “I’m off shift.” She tries not to think of how Kareem and Judy Alexis would react if they knew there were weapons aimed at them. “Hey Kareem, you know when you were shot in the leg…”

  “It was his ass that got shot off,” giggles Judy Alexis. “Tore him a brand new hole.”

  “So when you got shot, how did you feel?”

  “Pain, mostly” says Kareem.

  “But afterwards. Weren’t you mad?”

  “Soon as I could walk, I stopped being mad and started getting even,” he says. “Felt a whole lot better after that. Why d’you ask?”

  “Because I’m starting to feel the same way.”

  “About Georgy?”

  “Screw Georgy,” she says. “This Meat4 Power guy, this Bishop – he’s messed my life up and it pisses me off.”

  “You got that right,” grunts Kareem.

  “So if I find him, you think I’ll feel better?”

  Kareem shrugs his massive shoulders. “Worked for me.”

  “I’m going to need more help though. Not just you two but maybe all of the Grifters too. Do you think the Reverend will help?”

  The pair nods enthusiastically. “I know so,” says Judy Alexis. “Things have been so quiet for so long, we’re all wondering what the point of being in a gang is.”

  “I know so too,” says Kareem. “Cos payback’s always a motherfucker.”

  “Then make the call,” says Kirsty. “I need to find out what Bishop’s covering up…”

  THREE MONTHS EARLIER…

  Wednesday 25 December

  10:39 am

  SIXTEEN MONTHS OUT of the loop and Leander Bishop finally got the call to return to the Citadel on Christmas Day, of all days. Sixteen months of gruesome wetjobs as punishment for a single mistake and no indication when or if he’d ever be forgiven. He’d traced counterfeit pharmaceuticals sold as Meat4 Power brands to a basement lab and left a dozen enterprising students ziptied and shot in the head. He’d quashed union activity in factories by feeding recruiters to pre-operative wetware. He’d done exactly what he’d been told to do until, on Christmas Day, they’d brought him in from the co
ld.

  Leander Bishop was black-ops pared down to a deniable entity. Officially, he was a mid-ranking Regulated Security Consultant on extended deployment to Meat4 Power. Unofficially, he killed for them. He rented his apartment with cash, was briefed face to face in bug-swept deadrooms and funded from a large slush fund of untraceable cash. If his actions became public, such as his foiled attempt to hijack a Canadian oil tanker, Meat4 Power could distance themselves from him entirely. Bishop couldn’t have been what President Vandernecker had imagined as he spearheaded one efficiency drive after the next, yet here he was – the streamlined solution to many of Meat4 Power’s thornier problems.

  It took Bishop nearly three hours to get from the Hub to the Citadel, the link road rendered impassable by snow drifts and the Tramtrax service idling slowly behind a plough. It took another hour to work his way down to the basement deadroom. Guards checked and rechecked his ID, took his sidearm, ran him through a metal detector. Finally, insulated against sound by foam blocks and against blast by sixty feet of reinforced concrete, Bishop stood in front of P Shaun Balaban. Indeterminately over eighty, the CEO of Meat4 Power since forever, Balaban wasn’t a man who’d grown old by taking risks.

  Bishop stood in an overcoat still damp from melted snow and waited silently. The old man sat rigidly, pointedly reading hard copy documents on polished wood desk. He looked like a tortoise in a finely-tailored suit.

  Bishop knew how he kept going because he’d seen the files. Balaban was on human growth hormones and a stringent antioxidant regime. There were subcutaneous colonies of bioengineered counter-carcinogen cells implanted in his back. His organs and muscles were stripped out and replaced whenever they showed signs of wear. With the full weight of M4’s R&D department working for him, Balaban’s retirement was on hold indefinitely.

  “Are you having a Merry Christmas, Leander?” Bishop was caught unexpectedly in the fixed gaze of young, bright, tank-cultured eyes.

  “I was about to, sir,” he replied. “Turkey roll, stuffing and roasties, Christmas pud, the whole thing.”

  “Roasties? Pud?” Balaban frowned but his Botox-smoothed forehead stayed wrinkle free.

  “Potatoes and pudding,” Bishop explained. “Try as I might, my English language remains stubbornly English.”

  Balaban may have looked thoughtful, although with his taut, expressionless face, it was hard to tell. “In the early hours of yesterday morning,” he said eventually, “security at a production plant in northern Texas was breached by a lab technician called Danny Nyman. But for a fortuitous road accident, Nyman would have escaped with priceless pre-production samples.”

  It was Bishop’s turn to frown. “I wasn’t aware we had Texan facilities.”

  “As I would hope,” nodded the old man. “It was built and staffed under extreme secrecy. Nicky Guerro was the Regulated Security Consultant.”

  “I thought he was handling the East Coast.”

  “As did everyone else. Some secrets, it would seem, can remain secret.”

  “So Guerro’s got Nyman?” asked Bishop.

  “No,” said Balaban. “Nicky Guerro cornered Nyman after the theft. He was shot twice in the face and pronounced dead at scene. Nyman evaded capture by blowing himself up in the desert half an hour later.”

  “Then I’m to replace Guerro?”

  “Guarding a fixed facility is hardly making the most of your abilities.”

  “Then what? Should I find out who recruited Nyman?”

  “We already know that, Leander,” sniffed Balaban, dismissively. “This is the fifth attempt on R&D facilities in as many months, although the first successful one. Nyman was attempting to meet up with a chartered airship when he crashed. Bostov Cryonics paid for the hire.”

  Bishop allowed himself the faintest trace of a smile. Bostov Cryonics. He’d been warning about Bostov for years now. He’d typed reports until his fingers had ached and no one had even acknowledged receipt until now.

  “You need me to take down Bostov,” said Bishop.

  Balaban let out a reedy sigh and rubbed his new eyes with old hands. “We do not need you for anything,” he said. “This is not what you think, Leander.”

  “Sir?” Bishop dropped the smile, already regretting it.

  “You think that you are here to save us. You see no future in breaking legs and dumping bodies yet that is all you are good for after your involvement with that Canadian tanker. You are fifty six and thinking about retirement and feel that destroying Bostov might be a magnificent end to your career.”

  “Sir, I’ve have never once complained about my current postings and…”

  “…and this is not what you think. Your reports on Bostov’s threat to Meat4 Power have been analyzed and found to be wholly exaggerated. However, their attacks on our facilities provide justification for retaliation at a time when are looking for a diversion.”

  “A diversion.”

  “From a product launch,” said Balaban.

  “A product launch…” repeated Bishop.

  “The original plan had been to launch it this summer using stocks manufactured in the Texas facility,” said Balaban. “But since it is not clear whether Bostov know about the product or just speculatively infiltrated the facility, I feel we must bring the launch forward to Spring. And while a move against any of our rivals would mask this move, striking Bostov has the advantage of disrupting any further action against us.”

  “You want me to run interference for a product launch?” Bishop’s disgust was evident.

  “You are the perfect candidate. Your distrust of Bostov is widely known and several years old. When Bostov learn you are coordinating the attack against them, they will take the threat seriously.”

  “How will they know it’s me?”

  The old man smiles coldly. “Because we will leak that information.”

  “Thus painting a bulls eye on my forehead,” said Bishop.

  “Thus adding depth to the deceit that a Spring offensive against Bostov is the reason for increased Meat4 Power activity.”

  “It’s a death sentence,” said Bishop.

  “It is an opportunity for redemption,” said Balaban. “I would have thought that a man who is wanted by both the Canadian and North American governments would want to impress an employer who continues to protect him. At great risk, I might add.”

  Balaban went back to reading while Bishop stood and seethed and thought through his limited options. After a minute, Bishop asked “When should I start?”

  “Today would be good,” said Balaban. “We require a Mercwar campaign to last at least three weeks prior to the launch.”

  Bishop snorted in disbelief. “Army dropouts playing hide and seek with lightguns?”

  “It is both tax deductible and appealing to those stock holders who prefer a more aggressive corporate stance,” said Balaban. “More importantly, it will provide significant newsfeed footage.”

  “But if you let me do things my way…”

  For a brief moment, Balaban looked vaguely annoyed. “Your way would be quiet and murderous yet we require noise and action.” He regained his uninterested expression. “That said, your funding will be ring-fenced. The major allocation is to mercwar, followed by a provision for bio-weapon field testing and finally by black-ops.”

  “Bio-weapons have no part in a firefight.”

  “In the next century, they will,” insisted Balaban. “After proper testing.”

  Bishop tried again. “When I was signed up, the British Army worked fine with rifles and armored vehicles.”

  This time, Balaban looked truly annoyed. “I realize you spent your youth in a country without livedrives but this does not impress me. You forget that I predate the Hubs, so I too grew up in a gasoline-powered country. It was called the USA.”

  “Then you’ll appreciate the military deficiencies of…”

  “What I appreciate…” said the old man, “…is that Britain is far across the ocean, that my youth is far into the past an
d that the North American Union is a livedrive-enabled nation. Do you understand?”

  P Shaun Balaban picked up a file and started to read. After a long minute, Bishop broke the awkward silence. “This product,” he said. “What is it?”

  “Reboot,” said Balaban without looking up. “It is called Reboot. Talk to Professor Jeffrey Chang about it. He’s expecting you.” That was it. The meeting was over.

  Product. Bishop left and picked up his pistol and fumed all the way up to ground level and beyond.

  Product.

  When he’d deserted the British Army, Bishop had fled to the NAU and expected the America he’d seen in the movies but that was already long gone. He’d found a country blessed with a thousand years of natural resources that had squandered them in just a hundred and fifty. He’d found a one-time superpower that now meekly sat and prayed for sanctions to end. He’d found a people who used to fly coast-to-coast for the weekend but now couldn’t travel more than ten miles from their own doorstep…

  It made him furious that he’d missed America acting so big and arrived in time to see them thinking small. It burned him up that what could have been his triumph was going to be a footnote in a marketing campaign.

  He shook his head in disbelief, wrapped his scarf tightly and opened the door onto the squares and avenues of the Citadel blanketed in pure deep snow. Everywhere else but in his angry heart it was Christmas Day.

  Thursday 13 March

  10:11 am

  “SO NOW EVERYONE knows everything,” says Kirsty, sitting in the closed-off dining area of the Bowlerama, Shelburne old town’s greatest attraction. She’s slipped the duty manager a few dollars and, apart from curious glances from regulars playing the lanes, no one seems to mind much.

  She’s missed nothing out and waits now for a reaction. From Tim, who’s been looking out for her from the start and never once asked why. From Scott Karpel, who’s here because Bostov know where he lives. From her two young bodyguards, who hadn’t known about the sniper rifles aimed at them until now. Or from the Reverend, who may or may not have a turf war on his hands depending on whether Georgy shows up again. He’s the one who eventually coughs to clear his throat.