It was time to teach the angels new tricks.
“Okay. Okay.” Mike’s voice caught. He pulled the trigger, five whines from the coilgun, and four cracks. Zacharies groaned.
Mike spun. Zacharies held his hand out, a coilgun round suspended in the air. Twin trails ran through the dust at Zacharies’ feet where the force pushed him back. Stopping the angel’s weapon had been hard. He smiled despite the strain. “Do you believe now?”
Mike stared at the suspended coilgun round. Zacharies let it fall to the floor with a plink. “How did you…?”
“I wasn’t sure I could,” admitted Zacharies. “I don’t think I could do that more than once or twice.”
“You stopped a fucking bullet. In the air.”
“Yes.”
“You stood in the way.” Mike cleared his throat. “I could have shot you, kid.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “But you needed to see. When I came here, I didn’t believe in angels, but I believed in demons.”
“Two sides of the same coin,” suggested Mike.
Zacharies walked out of the range. He reached for the coilgun. Mike handed it over. “No, I don’t think so.”
“No?”
“No.” Zacharies looked at the weapon, turning it over in his hands. “Angels didn’t make this.”
“That’s right,” said Mike. “A bunch of assholes in R&D came up with that one.”
Zacharies watched Mike run a hand through his hair, a slight shake in the movement. “Are you okay?”
“Hit the overtime,” said Mike. “I’ll be fine.”
“Overtime?”
“It’s another non-angel magic trick,” said Mike. “I’ll show you one day. Just not today.” He turned to the range. “Don’t do that again.”
“Do you believe now?”
Mike sighed, head bowed, shoulders slumped. “I don’t believe in angels, kid. Or demons. Or magic tricks.”
“What do you believe in?”
“I don’t know. Something else.”
“But not angels.” Zacharies frowned. “The Reed drug.”
Mike turned. “What about it?”
“It’s made by demons. Don’t drink it.”
“All this was so you could tell me that?” Mike looked at his shoes, the black leather buffed to a mirror finish. “You could have just said.”
“I tried that,” said Zacharies. “You didn’t believe. Promise me you won’t drink it, or touch anyone who has.”
“Why not? Why’s it so important to you?”
“Because the demon lives in water,” said Zacharies. “I thought you would have worked it out by now.”
“It lives in…” Mike trailed off. “The rain.”
“Yes,” said Zacharies.
“We can fix that,” said Mike. “We spin out your blood.”
“Spin out…” Zacharies stopped. “What does that mean?”
“We take the blood out of you, put it in a centrifuge, and—”
“What’s a centrifuge?”
Mike looked at him. “You really were born in a barn, weren’t you?”
“I don’t understand.”
“We shake your blood really hard, and all the crap that’s not blood comes out of it.”
“Oh,” said Zacharies. “Laia can do that.”
Mike blinked at him. “You can’t?”
“No.” Zacharies looked at his feet, covered by comfortable, soft shoes. Not Mike’s shiny black, but better than anything he’d had before. “She’s stronger than I am.”
Mike looked down the range at the broken targets. Or the fallen coilgun round. Zacharies couldn’t tell. “I’d like to see that.”
Zacharies grabbed Mike’s arm. “Promise me.”
Mike nodded. “Okay, kid. I promise. And I’ll get an order out advising no one in the syndicate take it.”
“Can you guarantee that?”
“No.” Mike shook his head. “Sorry.”
Zacharies gripped Mike’s arm harder. “Then we must be vigilant.”
Mike took Zacharies hand, pulling it away, gentle but firm. “Kid? It’s going to be okay.”
“No, it’s not. The Master is here and he has his demon. Laia and I aren’t strong enough to stop him. Heaven will fall.”
Mike laughed. “I doubt that.”
“Why? What’s going to stop him?”
“It’s simple,” said Mike. “The syndicates will. The world falling over? There’s no margin in it.”
Chapter Five
Mason watched the empty road outside their shelter. No one had come. Carter’s promise was good. This place was as off the grid as you could get. And it had decent whisky, remnants from a bygone time. He caught Sadie’s glance and decided not to make anything of it. On his list of people you owe, she was up there. In her shoes, Mason might have stabbed every company person within reach right in the spine.
They each held a glass of excellent whisky, sitting in old chairs that creaked when they moved. Mason knew Sadie didn’t have his augments for blood filtering, but she’d kept pace with him and didn’t slur.
“It’s not often a suit drinks like this for breakfast.” Sadie leaned back in her chair. Mason could see a grease smudge on her chin. He wanted to wipe it clean.
Instead, he swirled his drink. “You know many suits?”
“I know the type.” She jerked her head to where Laia lay inside. “Is she okay?”
Mason frowned, looking toward the new day sun, hanging low in the sky. “No.”
Sadie looked at her glass. “She got hungover for nothing.”
“She’s not hungover.” Mason threw back the rest of his drink, then stood. “That comes later.”
“You not staying, company man?” Her head rested on a hand as she stared at the same dawn.
“I’m staying,” said Mason. “We need more Scotch.”
“Don’t take long.”
Mason liked that she didn’t say anything about him walking in the wrong direction. The inside of their little base was dark. His optics adjusted for the light. Haraway wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Laia was curled up in a corner on the floor, dead to the world. Mason snared the worn blanket she’d kicked off, pulling it up around the girl’s chin.
It was a heavy thing, killing someone. Mason didn’t much think it mattered if you knew them. When the light went out in their eyes, you collected another ghost to follow you around until the end of your days.
The liquor taste was still sharp in his mouth, but its effects were muted. Mason remembered a time when a rival agent tried to use a neurotoxin on him. The lab had said it was derived from box jellyfish, the burn like molten metal running through his veins. Seconds after the dart hit, he’d bounced back to his feet and shot the agent. Bullets weren’t fancy, but they got the job done in a more predictable way. The bionics let a little alcohol through — the techs knew people like Mason needed some release — but it took real effort to get drunk.
If you can take an intravenous neurotoxin, alcohol’s not going to do the heavy lifting you need, Floyd. Still, he could try.
What was important was Laia not having to carry that ghost around for him. He pushed a strand of hair away from the girl’s face, then got back to his feet.
Mason set down a couple of new bottles on the rickety table in front of Sadie. She raised an eyebrow at him. “Just two?”
He shrugged, taking the seat next to her again. The sun was a little higher in the sky. A little brighter. “I didn’t want to overload you.”
Sadie snagged a bottle, sloshing a generous pour into their glasses. “Where’s the doctor?”
“Not here.” Mason picked up his glass.
“Good. I’ve been meaning to ask you—”
“What’s a nice guy like me doing in a place like this?”
He saw the smile Sadie tried to hide. “Why’d you do it?”
Mason took a sip, then cradled the glass in his hands. “Depends which ‘it’ we’re talking about.”
“When you g
rabbed me.” Sadie shrugged, the motion small. “I thought I was dead.”
Mason glanced at her. “Truth?”
“Always.”
“You looked like you needed an exit.” Mason closed his eyes for a moment as the sun touched his face. It felt so warm, like it was right in front of him. He wondered what it would be like to hold a piece of it. It’d burn the sin right out of him.
Sadie’s voice drew him back. “I didn’t.”
“Right. Then I’m sorry.” Mason still spoke the truth. There wasn’t a reason to lie.
“Do you know who Aldo Vast is?”
“No clue,” admitted Mason. “Should I?”
“Not especially. I’m trying to work this out.”
“Take your time.” Mason’s glass was low already. How did that happen? He poured more for both of them. “The day’s not going anywhere.”
“I’m trying to work out why you shot him in the leg.”
“Oh.” Mason remembered an angry asshole at The Hole. “That guy’s name was Aldo?”
“Aldo Vast.” Sadie nodded. “He was … is… it’s complicated.”
“I don’t want to tell you your business—”
“But you’re going to anyway.”
“It looked like he was after a piece of you. He had a sliver of glass, hate in his heart, and—”
“I could have handled it.” Sadie’s voice was clipped, like she’d cut each word with a laser.
“I’ve no doubt.” Mason turned to her. “I don’t think I could have, though.”
“What?”
“It’s kind of hard to see someone about to cut on someone else you…” Mason shook his head. Someone you like. Is that right, Floyd? Maybe the whisky was troubling him after all.
“Someone else you what?”
“I couldn’t stand by. That’s all.”
“Real noble of you.” Sadie reached for the bottle. “So you shoved me in a van and drove a couple hundred klicks to Fuckistan, edge of Nowheresville.”
“Yeah, sounds about right. When you say it like that, it makes me sound like a huge asshole.” She laughed, a bright sound on the edge of the morning. He liked it — honest laughter in a way he couldn’t remember hearing inside the Federate. People were always laughing at jokes that weren’t funny, made by people they wanted something from. “Still. I’m sorry.”
“That’s funny,” said Sadie. “I thought you said sorry. For the second time. I must be imagining things.”
“We’re not all assholes.”
“Yes, you are.” Sadie looked sad. “I don’t know if you know what it’s like, being outside a company. When a van turns up to take you away, it never brings you back.”
Mason turned that over in his head. “I don’t think this was a regular van taking you away. I don’t think this is a regular mission at all.”
“That why she’s in charge? The doc.”
“I’m not sure she’s in charge,” admitted Mason.
“Whatever, company man. Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s the alcohol, but one of us wants to know what we’re doing today.”
Mason reached for the bottle, same time as her. Their fingers touched, and her hand lingered for a moment before pulling away. He struggled to find something to say. To her, out here, in this place. He settled for a word that had almost worn out its usefulness. “Sorry.”
“It’s not you.” Sadie looked away.
“Yeah, it is.” Mason let the bottle go, grabbed his glass, and tossed back the liquor. It’s me, or what I am. “Fuck it. Today we’re going shopping.”
Chapter Six
“You have significantly overstepped your remit, Mr. Oldham.” The board secretary looked down the table, and his nose, at Julian. He was thin, and while a clinic hid most of his age his manner said I know your kind, son. The old oak table — real wood, like they could buy themselves class — was buffed to a dark gloss, catching the dim overhead lights. They stuck, like trapped fairies, in its surface.
Julian sniffed. Get it together. “Yeah, about that. It’s not—”
“I haven’t finished.” The secretary cleared his throat, looking left and right at the board members. They were stacked in perfect rows down the sides of the long table. Twenty assholes all wearing immaculate suits that cost more than most people made in a year. “Please do not interrupt.”
“Of course not, sir.” Julian shifted his weight. He could feel the pile of the carpet, thick under his feet. Probably real wool. They’ve put that in since I was last up here.
“You’ve instigated a manufacturing run without the involvement of Marketing. Or, as near as we can tell, R&D. Is this correct?”
“Kinda,” admitted Julian. “Sure, we’ll go with that.”
“I don’t think I like your tone.” The secretary’s face was lined, the years he carried no longer easily pushed aside by clinic visits.
“I apologize.” Julian looked at his shoes. It’s not like it’ll make any difference.
The secretary stared at him a few moments longer. “Very well. The manufacturing run has been pushed out without the usual clinical trials. The syndicate could be heavily exposed if this new product turns out to be hazardous.”
“More hazardous,” said Julian.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said ‘more hazardous.’” Julian shrugged. “Than our usual products, I mean.”
“Our products are well-tested.”
“Yes,” agreed Julian. “We know how they break, and how to manage the media.”
“Quite.” The secretary nodded. “You show a good understanding of the key principles. Why, then, did you contravene your remit within your department?”
“I had to.”
“You what?”
“I had to.” Julian turned the window. The rain — ordinary, wet, heavy, shitty rain — fell, unconcerned. He straightened his tie, throwing a glance at the secretary. “You’ll understand shortly.”
“I—”
“It’s quite simple.” Julian sighed. “You think you’ve got me on trial, right?”
“We’re not a court.” The secretary frowned, looking sideways at a board member for support. The other man shrugged.
“Whatever.” Julian waved a hand. “The truth of it is, you’re on trial.”
“I beg your pardon?” The secretary rose from his chair.
Julian turned from the window. “Sit the fuck down.”
The man goggled. “What?”
Julian tugged at a cuff, then brushed a piece of lint from his sleeve. “You’ve all been sitting here, talking at me, measuring dicks under the table, right?”
Shock warred with rage on the secretary’s face. “I—”
“Exactly,” said Julian. “And while you’ve been doing that, my friend…” His voice caught for a second, and he cleared his throat. “My friend outside has been sucking you dry.”
“I have never—”
“Probably not.” Julian nodded. He walked around the table. The men in their chairs, not a woman among them, swiveled to track him as he paced to stand by the secretary. “You’ve invested quite a bit in me, haven’t you?” The secretary looked into his face. Old and weak. “There’s just one thing left I need to do.”
“What’s that?”
“I need to kill one of you. Apparently, he needs to understand what your stress response is like.”
The secretary blinked. “What?”
Julian leaned forward. He lowered his voice, made it soft, almost a whisper. “It’s okay. It won’t hurt. I promise.”
“What won’t hurt?” The secretary looked adrift, other board members shifting. This wasn’t how this meeting was supposed to go. No real alarm showed yet, because these A-types were punchy. They liked a hard negotiation. Let’s mix it up.
“You know what? You’re right.” Julian stood, a sliver of laughter, bright and fragile, bursting from him. “You should choose. It’s the last choice you’ll ever make for yourselves. Who’s it gonna be?” He looked down the tabl
e.
The man to the secretary’s right leaned forward, the movement small. “Excuse me.”
“Yeah?” Julian offered him a side glance.
“Did you just say that you’re going to shoot one of us?”
“No,” said Julian.
“Thank God.” The man leaned back.
“I didn’t say I’d shoot anyone at all. It’d be hard to get a weapon in here. I said I was going to kill one of you. He left the method up to me.”
The man swallowed. “I’ve called security.”
“Good for you.” Julian faced the secretary. “Okay, boss. Who’s it going to be? Which one of these fools gets to die?”
“I—”
“Hell, you can vote on it if you like.” Julian turned to the window again. A bolt of lightning stabbed down, the bright arc filtered out by his optics. “Only thing is, you don’t have all day. I need your nominee in the next thirty seconds.”
He heard movement behind him as people surged for the door. It was locked. Voices raised, the rattle of the door handle. Angry shouts edged with panic and fear.
Fear. They didn’t know the meaning of the word. Not yet.
Tugging at his cuff again, he swiveled to face them. Most of them were gathered by the door, eyes frighted. One man stepped forward, opening his mouth like he was going to say something.
“Can it,” said Julian. “I really couldn’t give two shits what you’ve got to say, unless it’s a name.”
The man blinked. “I nominate the secretary.”
“Seconded,” said another.
“What?” The secretary struggled as they pushed him before Julian. “I—”
“This should be a pretty good lesson, don’t you think?” Julian patted the secretary’s shoulders, almost gentle. “I’m real sorry about this. But you are an asshole.”
“You—”
The rest was lost in overtime’s molasses as Julian stepped forward. He went to work, and he was thorough.
The Master had been very specific about that.
Julian stared at the smears along the sides of the boardroom table. The board sat around it, two sporting red splashes on white shirts. He glanced over at the secretary.
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