Chromed- Rogue

by Richard Parry

  Laia looked down, frowning. “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.”

  “How do you stuff a shirt?” Laia’s frown deepened. “You say very strange things.”

  “Right back at you, kid.” Mason held up his glass. She looked at him, face blank. Mason sighed. “You clink glasses. Here.” He stood, the chair complaining again, then moved to her side of the table. Mason lifted her hand holding the glass, touching the edge of the tumbler against his own. The sound was a muted promise.

  “Why?” Laia blushed with whisky’s flush. “The sand doesn’t need to touch other sand. It doesn’t remember all of what it was.”

  “It’s not for the sand.” Mason stretched, then slumped onto his chair. “I don’t know. A challenge. A salute. Agreement, maybe.”

  “All with a cup?”

  “We call them ‘glasses.’ Because they’re made of glass.”

  “You said they were made of sand.”

  “Yes.” Mason finished off his whisky, pouring another. He held the bottle up, and she held her tumbler out.

  “I don’t understand you at all. You’re not what I thought an angel would be like.”

  “I’m not an angel.” Mason thought for a moment. “Where are you from?”

  She blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  Mason looked at the bottle as if it might offer a suggestion. “It helps, sometimes. Talking about where we’re from. Who we know.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything.” Mason turned the tumbler in his hands. The edges of his words were softened by the drink. “It’s not for me.” Laia took another swallow. Ask her, Mason. Ask her a thing she wants to tell. You can see it, clear as day. “Tell me about your brother.”

  “He is very strong. Stronger than me. He’s always watched out for me as much as he could. Even when the Masters…” Her words wound down, so she took another sip of whisky. Laia stared into the distance. “He’s always stood by me.” Mason didn’t say anything. He sat still, silent, not touching his drink. Laia laughed, a small sound, nervous. “I remember once he…” She stopped. “I miss him.”

  Mason filled her glass again. She didn’t seem to notice, words falling from her. “He gave me my first birthday present, a piece of cake he’d stolen from one of the Masters. It tasted like honey. Zacharies wanted to give me a taste of the sun, he said, the real sun. He said he could still remember where we were born and told me stories of a place we’d lived by the sea. I don’t remember the sea. I don’t know how so much water could be in one place. I thought it was a silly story until he gave me a shell. It was only small, but I could hear the memory of where it came from when I held it, a vast ocean of blue and green. It had been forgotten, but he found it and gave it to me.” Laia looked at Mason. “I lost the shell he gave to me. I don’t know where I put it.”

  “Yeah.” Mason held his voice low, soft like a blanket. “It was only a shell.”

  “You don’t understand. He gave it to me. He…” She stuttered to a halt, sobs wracking her small frame.

  Mason moved to her, pulling her head to his shoulder, stroking her hair. “Shhh. It’s okay.”

  “No.” Laia’s voice was cracked and broken. “I killed him. I killed that man out there, and he’ll never walk again under the sun, or see the ocean, because of me. I felt him die.”

  Mason didn’t say anything. Her body shook, pain tearing free with great cries that seemed like they’d never stop. He held her until she’d finished, kneeling on the old stone ground until she was ready to let go.

  “Where…?” Laia slurred. “Where’s…?” She giggled, an elbow against the table.

  Mason smiled, pouring himself another. He’d lost count of how many he’d tipped back, the fire of the whisky banked with overuse. The bottle didn’t seem to touch him tonight.

  Come morning she’d be wrecked. Doesn’t matter. She needs it.

  Laia pushed herself upright, fixing Mason with a stare. Her eyes were wide with too much liquor, her cheeks red like an old sun. With great concentration, she pulled the words together. “Where are they?”

  Mason shrugged. Sadie and Haraway had been gone for a time. The overlay blinked, the time stamped at the edge of his vision, but he ignored it. Things took as long as they took.

  It was the color of pitch outside, the dark before the dawn. Cold seeped around everything, creeping in against flesh. They stood outside, Laia looking at the sky as the liquor made her sway. “They’re beautiful. So many.”

  “You don’t have stars where you come from?” Mason frowned.

  “We have stars, silly.” She slapped his arm. “But they don’t look like this. They’re dim. Far away. These are close enough to touch.” Laia teetered, and Mason caught her. “I feel…”

  “You feel drunk.”

  “Drunk?” Laia’s eyes crossed. “I think I like it.”

  “Just wait until tomorrow. You’ll learn that drunk has a bitch of a return flight.” Mason stood her up, taking a step away.

  Laia looked at the street. “There’s something missing.”

  “Yeah,” said Mason. “The van. They took it with them.”

  “No,” said Laia. “The stars. I mean, the rain. The rain’s gone.” She turned and smiled. “That’s why it’s so easy to breathe.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Mason filled his lungs, the air tasting of hope, and watched as Laia turned in a slow circle, arms stretched out as she laughed at the sky.

  Dawn walked her slow pace across the sky when Sadie and Haraway came back. Mason lifted the bottle in salute, saw it was empty, and tossed it aside. It broke on the sidewalk with a sound like crystal rain. His optics picked out the tiny details, the weariness in Haraway’s stride, the smudge of dirt on Sadie’s face.

  Haraway walked up to Mason, her feet picking a path over the broken street. “You smell like a brewery.”

  “Distillery,” corrected Mason.

  “What?”

  “I smell like a distillery. We were drinking whisky, not beer.”

  “‘We?’” said Haraway. She looked at Sadie for support. “Tell me you didn’t get that girl drunk.”

  “Nope. She got herself drunk.”

  Sadie laughed. “Jesus Christ, Mason Floyd. You’re a piece of work.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Haraway.

  Mason frowned, getting to his feet, the movement slow. Getting old. You need another session at a clinic. “Why’s that?”

  “You didn’t invite me.”

  “Wait, what?” said Haraway.

  “C’mon, doc.” Sadie walked through the gap in the wall into their little shelter.

  Haraway lingered by Mason, looking into his face, her eyes searching. “Oh. I see.”

  Mason took a step back. “What?”

  “I’m sorry.” She put a hand on his arm. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t realize you found it so hard.”

  Mason blinked, the sky brighter by the moment. “Found what so hard?”

  “The job.” She said job but in a way that made Mason hear killing. Haraway walked through the gap in the wall after Sadie. “If I’d known, I’d have chosen someone else.”

  Chapter Four

  Zacharies held a Metatech coilgun. He didn’t understand what the name meant, but Mike promised the weapon was effective, better than even a crossbow.

  They stood in a firing range, a concrete bunker in Metatech’s HQ. The walls were smooth stone and smelled of chalk. The lights were bright, like being outside. Fake people stood as targets at one end. Zacharies and Mike stood at the other. Mike said the room was near those assholes in R&D. They hadn’t come across anyone who’d tried to kill Zacharies, not since the metal men, which meant assholes came in all shapes and sizes.

  “Mike, what is going the fuck on?” Zacharies sniffed the coilgun. It smelled like the air after a lightning storm.

  “The fuck is
going on.” Mike brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve.

  “What?”

  “‘The fuck’ comes before ‘going.’ Also, don’t hold it like that. Put it against your shoulder like I showed you. You’ve got to lean into it.”

  Zacharies corrected his stance, setting the rifle to his shoulder and sighting down the barrel. A target mannequin stood in his sights. Some magic of the weapon made the fake person appear larger. He could see the smooth material it was made from, a plastic that reflected light. “Like this?”

  “Yeah.”

  Zacharies pulled the trigger, the coilgun shoving hard against his shoulder as the induction loops pushed the slug out the barrel. He could feel the pressure of the weapon as the slug — new, molded from ancient steel, cast amongst thousands of its kind in a mighty stone fortress — left the barrel. It passed through the mannequin, tearing through the center of its chest. Plastic and metal rained from the back.

  “Nice shot, Zach. Try your question again.”

  Zacharies thought about the words and how to order them. The device in his head showed the way, but it made mistakes sometimes. It felt like a person he’d just met, not sure of how to talk to him. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Better.” Mike smiled. “We’re teaching you to use weapons. And teaching you to swear so you don’t sound like an illegal migrant from Botswana.”

  “Where is Botswana?”

  “It’s a shit hole. Doesn’t matter where it is.” Mike nodded down the range. “To be fair, most everywhere but here is a shit hole. Try another shot.”

  Zacharies gritted his teeth. It had been a busy couple of days. Tiring. Confusing. And Laia was missing. “I don’t understand the point of learning this. Can’t the link do it?”

  “Not very well. It’s pretty good at mapping out targets, telling you where you should fire. It’s lousy at the math of moving objects. Especially without optics.”

  “Optics?”

  “Eyes.” Mike tapped his temple. “We can replace your eyes if you want. Give you an overlay of your own.”

  “What’s wrong with my eyes?”

  “Nothing.”

  “This seems so … inefficient.” Zacharies tried the word on for size.

  “You’ve got a Metatech mil-spec coilgun. There’s nothing to not like about that baby.”

  “Not the weapon. How you use it. Why do you look through the sight?”

  Mike blinked. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “Like this.” Zacharies shouldered the weapon, lining the sight up against his eye. “You told me to look down it to target.”

  “Uh.” Mike frowned. “You got a better way?”

  Zacharies hefted the weapon. “Yes.” He reached out with his gift. He felt…

  The mannequin stood at the end of the range. Five others beside it, all in a row. He felt the coilgun in his hand, the rounds in the magazine, the burning heat of pooled energy at the base of the weapon. The shells yearned to be used, their purpose clear.

  Zacharies closed his eyes, turned his face from the targets, and pointed the coilgun down the range. He pulled the trigger five times, controlling the buck of the gun. The weapon clicked and whined, each shot punctuated by the shattering sound of a mannequin.

  There was a moment of silence. Zacharies opened his eyes. “That way.”

  “Fuck me.” Mike pulled out his pack of cigarettes, absently offering one to Zacharies. Zacharies held up his palm. Mike shrugged, took one from the pack, and lit it. “Did you just use some Jedi shit there?”

  “What is Jedi?”

  “I know what we’re watching on Friday night. I’ll bring you up to speed. You shot five targets with your eyes closed.”

  “Yes.” Zacharies frowned. “It’s the best way.”

  Mike took another pull on his cigarette. His face said this is a miracle in a world of miracles. “Can everyone from your world do this?”

  “No, the gift works differently in each person. I can touch things, just as Laia can.”

  “She can do this too?”

  “Yes.” Zacharies looked at his feet. “If she were here.”

  “What about the asshole?”

  Zacharies kept his eyes lowered, more from habit than need. “The Master?”

  “Yeah. The asshole.”

  “No. He can’t touch things. Only people.”

  “That’s a relief.” Mike blew smoke, a steady stream whisked away by air recyclers.

  Zacharies turned the coilgun in his hands. “I don’t think you understand.”

  “Probably not. My mother used to tell me that a lot. And my teachers back in the day.”

  “The Master can’t touch things.” Zacharies put urgency into his voice. Mike must understand. If he met the Master unprepared, he would fall. “He can touch minds. He is much, much stronger than me. Or Laia. That’s why he is the Master.”

  Mike nodded, looking off into the distance. “And he’s with Reed.”

  “That’s why I asked.”

  “Asked what?”

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Yeah, I’m beginning to get it.” Mike flicked ash from his cigarette. “You’re worried about the new drug.”

  “You mustn’t drink it. Promise me.”

  Mike laughed. “I don’t touch anything made by Reed. It’s against company policy.”

  “Or let anyone you know touch it.”

  Mike stopped laughing. He looked Zacharies in the eye, lips pursed. “Can I ask why?”

  “Do you believe in angels, Mike?” Zacharies looked down at the coilgun. Heaven has the most wondrous, terrible things.

  “Not as a general rule.” Mike held a hand out for the coilgun. “Lemme see that.”

  Zacharies handed the weapon over. “What do you believe in?”

  “You don’t need superstition or religion to explain why people are cunts. You just need some friends at your back, and a big gun.” Mike tossed him a glance, then shouldered the weapon. He pulled the trigger five times, the whine and crack hard against the concrete walls of the range. The targets shattered and splintered, one of them falling to pieces, an arm and head falling to the ground in white fragments fine as powder. “See? Doesn’t take Jedi powers.”

  Zacharies cocked his head. “Now do it with your eyes closed.”

  “What?”

  “You had your eyes open,” said Zacharies. “It’s like you don’t believe. In the power of your friends, or your gun.”

  Mike sighed. “Okay.” He shut his eyes, turned his back, and pointed the rifle over his shoulder down the range. There was the slightest pause, like the breath before lightning, then the coilgun whined and cracked five more times. Each shot hit, the remains of the mannequins shattering into dust, pieces falling with the dull sound of breaking plaster.

  “That’s not bad,” admitted Zacharies. But Mike wasn’t listening. Not to what was really important. “I don’t think you understand yet. Could you set me up more targets?”

  Mike pulled out his cigarette pack again. The finger of flame from his lighter reflected off his eyes as he looked at Zacharies. He blew the smoke at the ceiling. “Do I look like your chai wallah?”

  “It’s not that. Clearance, remember? Your … assholes? Yes, your assholes here won’t let me go to the toilet without a minder. I can’t even get toilet paper from the dispenser without a code. Which feels strange.” He frowned. “I didn’t know what toilet paper was until two days ago.” He held out a hand for the coilgun.

  “Fine, fine.” Mike walked to the side of the range, opening a door into the firing zone. Zacharies turned away, his back to the range. He listened to Mike moving mannequins into position.

  “You got them setup yet?”

  “I guess.”

  Zacharies pointed the weapon over his shoulder and reached with his gift.

  Each mannequin stood, the plaster of their bodies hewn from old stone, riverbeds washing the lime down from the mountains. A man waited, the flesh of hi
s body warm, surrounding the furnace of bright technology and the beat of his heart. The blood in his veins moved faster as realization hit.

  He pulled the trigger five times, the coilgun’s whine followed by a crack of plaster.

  “Jesus Christ!” yelled Mike.

  Zacharies faced him, eyes still closed. “Five targets.” Zacharies opened his eyes. “Five targets, and one … friend. I didn’t see you set them up. I didn’t use my eyes. Five hits, no misses. I didn’t shoot you. And you were moving around there pretty fast. Do you believe?”

  “I believe I’m going to punch you. Maybe in the face.” Mike stepped around a broken target. “I’m actually going to hurt you.”

  “If you feel it’s best.” Zacharies shrugged. “I’ve got a better idea.” He held out the coilgun. Mike walked out of the firing range, taking it. “Wait here.”

  “Where are you going?” Mike stared at the coilgun. “You want me to shoot you in the face instead of punching you?”

  Zacharies smiled, but his heart wasn’t in it. “I want you to believe.” He walked into the range’s fire zone. “Turn around.”

  “No.”

  “Turn around. You don’t believe. Not yet.” He watched doubt wage war in Mike. “Fire whenever you’re ready.”

  “I might hit you.”

  “Yes,” agreed Zacharies. “You might. Your technology? Place your faith in that.”

  “I can’t see.” Mike’s back was to Zacharies, shoulders hunched as he looked at the coilgun.

  “It’s going to be okay, Mike.”

  “Zach? I don’t want to punch you in the face.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean, I can hear your footsteps, but the error margin—”

  “I know.” Zacharies stepped around broken targets, placing his feet with care so as not to disturb the rubble. “I trust you.” He stood between Mike and a target. Zacharies closed his eyes, breathing in, the smell of plaster dust and Mike’s fear on the air. Mike was afraid, and not of losing a bonus or percentage. He was afraid of hurting a friend. Zacharies could see it in those hunched shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, and the hesitation in his movements.