And I like her even more for that, dammit, in spite of myself. It’s gracious, and she’s not making a fuss about being gracious. A grown-up woman.
A woman who looks more familiar the more I look at her. “Elspeth Dunsany,” I say, thoughtfully. “Doctor Dunsany?”
She nods. “Yes. That Doctor Dunsany.” Her face falls, as she wouldn’t let it before.
I understand. Oh, Nellie, do I understand. “It’s okay,” I say, and clap her lightly on the shoulder. “I’m that Master Corporal Casey. Nothing like an uncomfortable fifteen minutes of fame, is there? We’ll get along just fine.”
Valens clears his throat again, and as I turn to look at him I’m left with the unmistakable impression that he engineered this little meeting.
Of course he did. He’s Fred Valens, after all.
And as long as he thinks he’s got control of me, I’ve got half a chance of finding out what the hell is going on here, and why my sister put a bullet in the back of Mitch’s girlfriend’s head.
6:45 P.M., Monday 11 September, 2062
Albany Avenue
Hartford, Connecticut
Abandoned North End
Razorface leaned against creaking, smoke-scented black leather and kicked his feet up on the chrome-edged coffee table. He liked his living room. He’d picked out the furniture himself, over Leesie’s protests. As if a woman knew anything about what looked good.
He still didn’t like the dingy unwashed cop perched on the loveseat across from him, but what the hell. You took what you could get.
“So this doc of Maker’s said he get in touch with her? She been calling me, like I asked, but you know she don’t listen to nothing.”
“Yeah. I know. He said he’d try. The prints came back. Hers, and the ones I lifted off the door of that Honda I told you about. Maker—or Casey—”
“Maker.” Irritation filled his mouth like the constant subliminal taste of steel. “What she want to be called.”
“Right. The other woman is her sister, this Barbara Anne Casey the car is registered to. Who works for—are you ready for this?”
“The drug company?” Razorface rolled his massive shoulders back against the sofa, settling in. He could hear Leesie in the kitchen, banging cabinets. She wasn’t pleased about having a cop in the house.
“Close. Unitek corporate headquarters. Hired recently, too.” The cop punctured the air with jabs of his open hand. He leaned forward, picking up a glass of cola he’d been ignoring while the ice melted, and then fiddled with the tubular steel art object on the coffee table for a moment until it lined up neatly with the glass and chrome edge. “I’ve got a theory, Razorface, and I need you to do some checking for me.”
“What sort of checking?”
“Your dealers.”
Razorface leaned forward and rapped on the coffee table. At the sound, Emery peered around the corner from the next room, eyebrows raised questioningly, hand on his lapel. On the job. Razorface waved him down. “I ain’t got no dealers, man. I got boys, but they don’t sell.”
“Yeah, whatever. These guys who were supposedly out of New York. The ones nobody’s ever seen or heard of before?”
“Fuck, yeah. They weren’t from New York.”
The cop cracked his knuckles. “I think they were from Canada. And I bet you know people who could find out for me if they knew the right questions to ask. And maybe had a few holos to show around.” He reached slowly into his breast pocket and drew out a holder with a thick sliver of clear crystal imbedded in it.
“Damn. How you get those?” Despite himself, Razor felt a grin creeping across his face.
“Border patrol,” Mitch answered. “I’m a vice cop. This is the case I’m actually supposed to be working on.”
“Huh. You think we got some gangsters from Canada moving in?” He didn’t move to take it.
Mitch kept the hand extended. “Nah. I think we got a corporation. I think they ditched the Hammers here because it was convenient. Because they wanted a—fucked if I know. I think they did it on purpose, and I think they tainted them on purpose. And I think the company that makes the things is behind it all.”
Razor reached out and took the holo chip in his meaty hand. He laughed, and it turned into a wet cough, which he swallowed. “Why’d a corp be dumping stuff on my street? Not for money. Have to move volume for that.”
“Fuck,” Mitch answered. “Not controlled enough for a trial. Unless there was some reason they needed to—no, that makes no sense. Your guess is as good as mine, Razor, I guess I’m trying to say. Maybe it’s just that nobody gives a fuck what goes on in the North End. Maybe it has something to do with Maker being here.”
The silence stretched heavy. “Mitch.”
“Yeah?”
“You talk about the North End. Why you give a shit about this city, man? White boy from the suburbs …”
“Why do you? You’re a goddamned warlord. Nobody can touch you. You don’t have to do things the way you do. You do right. Most gangsters who get where you are, they go about shit a hell of a lot differently.”
Razorface thought about that for a while before he found the right words. They weren’t the right words, really, but they were the best he could do. “I grew up here, man. Some people, they think I go about things wrong, anyway.”
“You’ve got problems?”
“Damn, where ain’t I got problems? I got a twenty-year-old punk wants me out of a job so he can take my place, I got 20-Love trouble and they’re getting machine guns from somewhere. I got—hell, you don’t care what I’ve got.”
“So you grew up here. So what? So did the punks who shoot the place up, put bullets through little girls on playgrounds.”
“Yeah, well. There’s men don’t provide for their children, too. Mean we all should do whatever the fuck we want?” Razor swung his feet off the coffee table and stood up, heaving his body out of the sofa. It seemed to get harder every year. You’re not that fucking old. But it was a struggle not to breathe hard, and he wasn’t going to let himself look weak in front of a cop.
The air was shit; that was all it was. He turned away from the cop and focused on the wall clock. It was chrome, too, and polished black enamel. Like Razorface. Like everything else in the room.
“No,” the cop said, climbing to his own feet. He finished the soda and set the glass down on a coaster. “No, we probably shouldn’t. You going to look into that shit for me?”
The big gangster studied the wall a little more closely, examining a crack running down it. It’s for Merc. And the other kids. “Fuck, yeah. But people see you coming to the house here they’ll talk, and I don’t need that shit. Next time, you leave me a message on my hip. I meet you downtown or in East Hartford. Not the neighborhood, all right?”
“All right.”
Razorface didn’t turn around until Mitch left. He didn’t want the cop to see the look on his face and think him—sweet.
Once he was sure Mitch was gone, Razor uncurled his fingers from the holo chip thoughtfully and held the little sliver of crystal up to the light.
Canada.
Wish to hell I knew what that meant.
1900 hours, Monday 11 September, 2062
Larry’s West-Side Restaurant
Toronto, Canada
Genie’s grown since Christmas, but maybe not as much as you’d expect of a girl her age. She’s a big-eyed elf, blonde and fine-boned, and her big sister always seems to have her arm around Genie’s shoulders. Leah’s a good kid. Looks just like her mother, with a promise of early beauty and later strength. Genie, on the other hand, has Gabe’s eyes.
I miss Geniveve. It’s a funny thing to say, but I do. She was good for Gabe, and I never had a shot at him anyway. She was a class act.
Gabe has always had a good eye for women. Only ever made one mistake that I know of, and we were both much younger then.
The girls want pizza and garlic bread and Greek salad, so we wind up in a little hole in the wall on the west sid
e of town, gathered around a red-and-white checkered plastic tablecloth. The food’s good, all things considered. Genie eats like a pig. She has to, to maintain weight, although Gabe tells me she’s doing better now that she’s back on the gene therapy and the protein repair. Enzyme replacement therapy thins out the mucus in her lungs, but they haven’t nailed down the GI issues yet. She’s skinny and her cheeks are flushed and her skin is too pale, but she’s not coughing and she looks better than she did nine months ago, and that’s something.
I give Gabe’s knee a squeeze under the table when the girls are fighting over the last olive in the bowl. He’s had a lousy decade. Odd how a couple of months in the same burn unit will give you a chance to really bond with somebody. He used to sit by my bed, when I was conscious, his hands and arms swathed in loose gauze to the shoulder, and make terrible bilingual puns to make me forget how he got burned so badly. We talk about small things, the way we used to, and when the girls wander off to play the VR games near the door he leans forward over the table, pouring the last of the beer out of the pitcher and into our glasses. “All right, Maker. Are you going to come clean with me now?”
It’s a joy just to have him nearby and mad at me. “Gabe, do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?”
He sits back, blinks at me—“Pardon?”—and I make eye contact long enough to shrug.
My boots stick to the floor under the booth where somebody spilled a soda. There’s a squelching sound when I peel them free. “What Valens said is true as far as it goes. But it doesn’t begin to cover the territory. I’m sick, yeah. He’s not lying about that. But there’s a whole lot of other stuff going on I’m not sure about.”
He could even have the conversation bugged. Be tracing either or both of us. Probably is, in fact, so I’m going to say what I expect he wants to hear.
“But?” Gabe is waiting for me to continue, turning a spoon over and over in his hand. He hasn’t looked down.
“But I’m reasonably sure whatever you’re working on for him has to do with what I’m working on for him, and that he has some master plan for you and me.” I can’t explain all my suspicions—like the nasty sneaking thought I have nagging at the back of my brain that Valens set Gabe up to need this job so badly just so that he could offer it to him. And my even weirder suspicion, the one I’d almost laugh at for its narcissism, that for reasons I do not entirely understand, everything that has been happening revolves around me.
On the other hand, it could be a paranoid delusion. I’m given to understand I should be expecting those to start any time now. Fuck. All I ever wanted was a house on the Atlantic coast, maybe a dog or two and a husband who gave backrubs. How the hell I wound up with all this drama—Christ, I’ll never know.
Gabe’s looking at me. He expects me to continue, and I spread my hands wide and reach for another slice of pizza. Buying a little time, I turn my head to check on the girls. Their heads are under the VR helmets, and I can hear Genie laughing from here.
Laughing. Not coughing. Gabe glances over at his daughters and I see him grin. Genie has cystic fibrosis. Something for which there are many, many treatments these days—and still no cure. He looks back at me. “My project is classified,” he says. “I’d love to talk about it, Jen. But.”
“Don’t worry. I know what your project is. In gross detail, anyway. Doctor Dunsany’s lucky she ever saw the light of day again.” Gabe and I both almost went to jail under the Military Powers Act many years ago. Secrets having to do with what I carry under my skin. I’m not at all proud of what I did to keep us both on the outside, and Gabe doesn’t know about most of it.
And never will. But I’m going to count coup on Fred Valens, I swear, if it’s the last thing I do.
He laughs and sips his beer. “I guess it’s pretty obvious, at that. But it doesn’t relate to what you’re here for, from what you said earlier.”
“Could be. Right now, I’m here for extensive surgery. Which I’m assured is grossly noninvasive, whatever the fuck that means. And then I pay for it.”
“Pay for it?” His eyebrows go up. “What does the slippery Colonel Valens want from you?”
The grin takes over my face whether I want it to or not. “He wants to use me as a baseline to calibrate a VR pilot training program. Apparently pushing fifty and with my enhancements in disarray, I’m still faster than the kids he’s dragging out of flight training. That’s classified, too, of course.”
“So why are you telling me?”
The pizza is room temperature, and it still tastes good. Rich as the sensation of homecoming that enfolds me when Gabe reaches out and lays his hand over the leather glove covering my steel hand. I think of Valens’s promise to make me feel again, and my chest goes tight and strange, because I have no intention of taking him up on it. Not that I’m going to let him find that out.
I wish I remembered what it felt like to wake up in the morning and not hurt over every inch of my body. And then there’s ice-cold fear in the pit of my stomach, because I’m remembering my orientation that morning. “Because Valens needs me more than I need him right now, and because I need help.”
“Sure. Anything.” He checks on the girls again, and I wash the pizza—mushrooms, peppers, meatballs—down with a mouthful of beer.
“He wants me back on the narcotics. Under medical supervision. And I’m going to be taking Hyperex again, once the trials start. Not the Hammer, exactly. A new drug. Similar.” Merc, dark grayish purple and gasping, arching like a hooked fish … No. Don’t think about it, Jenny. Or think about it. Think about what it means.
That drug came from here.
“Maker. Jen. Tell me you’re fucking kidding.” He’s not looking at his kids now. The blue eyes bore into mine, anger rising across his face.
“I’m not. I’m told they won’t let me go through the nanosurgery without painkillers. And the research I’ve signed on for … well, they say I’ll need the Hammer for that.”
His voice is bleak. He’s drawing on the tablecloth with the tip of his unused knife. “We went through this once.”
Twice. Well, Gabe only went through it once. I catch myself rubbing the crook of my left arm as if there could still be any scars there. They’re gone, of course. Vanished like my life before the army. I have the sudden unholy urge to go find Chrétien, and it makes me want to turn my head and spit. Because I know I’m going to do it. Tomorrow. Or maybe the next day.
“I know. Valens knows …” everything. Well, not quite everything. But enough. “I’m gonna need you at my back.”
He’s unhappy about it. He nods anyway, because he’s my best friend, and we look out for each other.
“Gabe, I have to make a call. Wait for me?”
“Of course.” He knows I’m walking away from the conversation, and he lets me go anyway. Good man.
I use the wireless network to hook into a pay terminal across from the VR games. I promised to call Razorface, and I don’t want to do it on my own HCD. Call it paranoia.
He’s not answering, so I leave a message and hang up. I’m about to step out of the cubbyhole when a voice from my ear clip stops me cold.
“Ms. Casey.” Educated tones, American accent. West Coast? Maybe. Something cosmopolitan, something a bit archaic about the diction, and a subtle edge of excitement.
“Who are you?” And the edge in my voice is something else.
“I’m the ghost of Richard Feynman. And you are in a heck of a lot of trouble.” The screen beside me flickers on, revealing a gray-haired man with a face like a contour map, shifting restlessly as if from foot to foot. He grins. “And I really think we can help each other out.”
I turn back, trying to look as if I had just remembered another call I needed to make. “Ah. I see. And I’m supposed to know who Richard Feynman is because why?”
He laughs, delighted. “You have no idea how refreshing that is to hear. What I am, Ms. Casey, is an artificial intelligence created in the image of a man who has been dead for sev
enty-four years. I’m a friend of Elspeth Dunsany’s, and I need to get her a message without Colonel Valens finding out about it.”
Allen-Shipman Research Facility
St. George Street
Toronto, Canada
Evening, Monday 11 September, 2062
Elspeth slid a holographic crystal out of the outdated reader and tapped her interface off. She really ought to make a stab at transferring the data to more modern storage devices. I could probably stretch that out over at least three days if I worked at it. Valens is going to get cranky if I keep reviewing the old data. I wonder if he’s figured out that I’m stalling.
I wonder if I can justify starting over from scratch. New personalities. I could pick ones that seem to fit the criteria but are somehow subtly wrong to develop into true AIs.
I could. If I had any real solid clue what it was that made Feynman different from the rest. As it is, I’ve got just as much chance of building Valens his AI by accident as on purpose. And I am not handing the man a slave intelligence. Not if I can help it. She sighed and set the crystal on her desk, scrubbing her hands across her face before she reached for her mug. Cold tea, smelling of ashes. She drank it anyway, and wiped the mug out with her handkerchief.
She set it down once clean and rattled her fingers on the edge of her desk, away from the interface. The memory of Gabe Castaign bending over her outside the coffee shop that morning and dropping half a kiss on the corner of her mouth rose up to trouble her. She wondered if she could call him, and decided there was time enough to worry about it when an old friend hadn’t just blown in from out of town.
“All right,” she said at last, pushing her chair back to stand. “Tomorrow I’ll think about this.”
“Think about what, Doctor Dunsany?”
Elspeth was in the habit of leaving her office door open, because she could. She looked up to see Alberta Holmes, resplendent in gold and navy blue with matching shoes, primly framed in the doorway. “Doctor Holmes. Come in. I was just about to head out for the night.”
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