by David Ryker
“You want a coffee?” Ward asked, breezing past her and into the café. He ordered one and leaned against the counter as the barista set to work.
The doors were open and it was set to be a warm day, but there was no one else in there.
Erica stormed toward him, fists clenched. Ward had noted the espresso cup on the table next to her as he’d walked in. The ring on the table next to it, from the one she’d had before that. She was caffeinated and riled up.
“You’ve got some nerve,” she hissed, stopping close enough so that he could smell the coffee on her breath as it poured out of her flared nostrils. She’d showered that morning, too. Washed her hair with something with coconut in it. The bags under her eyes were faint, but noticeable. If she’d headed home after they’d parted outside the bar, and she didn’t live far, she’d maybe have gotten six hours of sleep under her belt if she was lucky. But somehow, he thought she’d had less.
Ward smiled easily, just to annoy her a little more. “You think about what I said?” he asked quietly, wondering what sort of place she lived in. A modest apartment? A studio?
She opened her mouth to continue her rant, but quickly realized he wasn’t going to give her anything. Instead, she said, “Which part?” The anger drained from her as quickly as it’d risen. Good.
“About the numbers?”
She hardened a little and steadied herself. “They could be anything.”
“Impress me.”
She scoffed. “I’m not here to impress you — I don’t work for you. I work for Moozana.”
Ward shrugged. “So you’re just going to be a passenger then.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think it means? If you’re not going to help, then I’ve got no use for you, which means you’re going to be in the way.”
“I’m not going to be ‘in the way’,” she said defensively. “I know what I’m doing.”
Ward narrowed his eyes, measuring her, and reached for the coffee the barista put on the counter. He put his hand on the credit-scanner and paid for it, lifting it to his lips without taking his eyes off Arza. “Do you? You came at seven because I asked you to. And I did that because I knew it’d force you to wake up early, which would make you want to get to bed as quickly as possible, snatch up all the sleep you could. But first off, your first mistake, I mean, was that you let me out of your sight. What if I had been in on it with Sadler and I was just looking for an opportunity to slip away? I’m not, in case you weren’t sure, but I could have just disappeared last night after you left, and you’d never have even known.”
She simpered to cover the rage bubbling under her skin. “I thought of that, and I didn’t go home until I knew you were in for the night.”
“But not in there.” He nodded toward the hotel opposite.
She ground her teeth. “You think you’re some sort of pro, don’t you? Smartest guy in the room.”
Ward was dead-eyed, sipping his coffee.
“Big freaking deal, you outsmarted an agent ten years your junior. Congratulations. That all this is to you? Some pissing contest? Some dick-swinging competition?”
Ward held back a little grin. That was the sort of colloquialism-laced talk that only came from an Earth native. A second name like Arza suggested her father was Martian, which meant her mother was a foul-mouth Human. That sort of made him happy. He shrugged again. “Help, or don’t. I don’t really care. I’m working this thing. What the hell are you doing?”
She softened a little, her fists finally unclenching. The blood returned to her knuckles and Ward finished the rest of his coffee and pushed off from the counter. “Come on, you can tell me about the numbers on the way.”
“Like I said, they could be anything.”
“But they aren’t. And don’t pretend like you didn’t stay up half the night trying to figure them out.”
“One, seven, eight, three, one, two, one, eight. It could be a million things.” Arza sighed.
“Enlighten me,” Ward said, walking casually. He liked the mornings in Old-Town. They were quiet, and he liked quiet.
She sighed again, more emphatically now. “A password. A location. A time. A date. A cipher key. A name. They could be the goddamn lottery numbers for all we know!”
“The lottery is six numbers, not eight,” Ward answered dryly.
She muttered something in Martian under her breath. Ward caught some swear words. “I wasn’t being serious.”
“Good.”
She stopped and looked up at the cyber-doc they’d stopped in front of. It was down a sidestreet stained with urine. Opposite was a less than reputable bath-house. “This the place?” Arza asked, glancing at Ward.
“What place?”
“The cyber-doc who worked on that woman.”
“You tell me.”
“Do you ever answer a question?”
“When I know the answer.”
“So is it?” She arched an eyebrow. “The place, I mean?”
“How should I know?”
“You brought us here.”
“I did.”
“Because this is the cyber-doc who worked on Sadler?”
“Because this is the longest-serving cyber-doc in Old-Town. And the best.”
Arza wasn’t really following, though she was trying to figure Ward’s train of thought — to little avail. “But he’s not the guy who worked on Sadler?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Wouldn’t bet on it, though.”
“So we’re just crossing him off the list?”
“Something like that.” Ward pulled his M2.0 and ejected the magazine, checking it and snapping it back into place, chambering a round on muscle memory. He pushed it back into his holster. “Follow my lead.”
She rolled her eyes and stepped into the shop after him, pushing through the beaded curtain and into the cool interior.
The shop was small and square, a glass counter splitting the front from the back.
Ward stepped forward, surveying the goods. The walls were covered in anatomically correct illustrations drawn by hand onto authentic Japanese rice paper and hung on the wall in decorative, tasseled scrolls. Insanely detailed exploded diagrams of organs and appendages, and intricate blueprints of cybernetic augmentations.
The counter was filled with gears and gizmos — plug and play additions to both Human and Martian anatomy — all designed by an expert hand.
A man with a long gray ponytail stepped into the room from behind a curtain at the back. He was human, Japanese, and in his sixties, at least, but still young and lithe by Martian standards. Steady-handed was the word that came to mind. He was wearing a Japanese silk robe over a more modern trousers and shirt combo, open to the mid-chest. Tufts of white hair stuck out. “Welcome to Matsumoto Augmentations,” he said carefully, bowing. “How may I help you?”
Ward curled a smirk and cast Arza a quick glance. “I need to shoot the prime minister,” Ward said coolly, “from two kilometers out.” He sighed theatrically and gestured to his eyes. “Except these aren’t worth a damn. Can you do something about that?”
Matsumoto raised one of his eyebrows very slowly until his forehead folded into deep wrinkles. “I think you should leave,” he said firmly.
Ward smirked. “Now, hold on a second. I was told you were the best cyber-doc in Old-Town.”
“I am,” Matsumoto replied without a hint of vanity, “but I do not handle the sort of request you have just made.” He was being diplomatic. Polite. But assertive. Someone wouldn’t walk in off the street and demand that sort of thing unless they had the balls to follow through with it. Matsumoto wasn’t new to the business, and no doubt had seen all sorts walk through the door over the years. Ward knew not to tangle with Augs either. Augs being people with lots of cyber-augmentations, that is. Matsumoto had to be one being as involved in the industry as he was. A cybernetically steady hand would definitely help, too. And yet the direct approach was the fastest way to the root of the prob
lem. Matsumoto breathed gently and broke eye contact. “And I do not involve myself in such affairs. My augmentations are for professional use and leisure only.” He waved Ward off gently and bowed slightly out of sheer politeness. “Have a good day,” he said, inviting them to leave.
Ward stared at him in silence, and Matsumoto stared back. Arza stood awkwardly next to Ward, trying to anticipate what was about to go down.
After a few seconds of deathly quietude, Ward’s posture loosened and he touched his shoulder. His Security Bureau badge hovered in the air over his hand and Matsumoto filled his chest with breath, relaxing in turn.
“Ward Miller,” Ward said. “Special consultant with the SB.” He let his hand drop and Matsumoto looked at Erica.
She stepped forward and touched her shoulder, too. Her badge flashed. “Erica Arza, Security Bureau investigator.”
Matsumoto glanced at them in turn. “Am I in trouble?”
“Did you sell cyber-augs to a guy and a woman looking to assassinate Tremel Chang?” Ward asked bluntly. Arza opened her mouth to ask who this ‘guy’ was, but stopped herself before she did.
“No.”
“Then no, you’re not.”
“How can I assist you?”
Ward came forward to the counter and laid his hands on it, letting his voice drop a little. “We had a body drop in Xaraniah Square yesterday. A shot made from over two clicks out—”
Arza came forward and cleared her throat. “Actually, we haven’t confirmed the shooter’s location yet, so—”
Ward fired her a cold look and she clammed up and stepped back. He returned to Matsumoto, who’d come forward a little himself and folded his arms pensively. “They had some fresh cyber work done. Pupil enlargement, macular resize, cone and rod mod.”
“Ocular cybernetics is one of the most challenging specialties,” Matsumoto mused. “I can understand why you came to me first.”
Ward heard Erica sigh quietly behind him. Martians didn’t like vanity. Didn’t appreciate arrogance. They thought it was a distinctly Human trait, and not a good one. She obviously carried that belief, passed down from father to daughter, it seemed. Except Ward knew Matsumoto wasn’t being cocky — he was being observative and pragmatic. He was the best in the city. It was pretty much common knowledge. He also had a deeply ingrained sense of honor, and last night Ward had checked up on him. His tax history was meticulous, his operating theater up to all the latest codes. His business was transparent and above board. He had nothing to hide and wanted that fact to be apparent. He wanted to distance himself from the connotation of the criminal aspect in his line of work. He held a disdain for those scalpel-slingers. What he did was an art, which was why Ward was there.
“Look, Matsumoto, I know you didn’t set them up. I took a look inside her eye — the work looked hasty. Maybe a little shoddy even. Lots of inflammation, some scarring that would affect the longevity of the mod. Not your style.” Ward exaggerated, hoping to stroke his restrained ego some.
“No, it is not,” he replied evenly.
“You hate the cowboy attitude, right? The come in and get cut ethos these other guys are peddling?”
Matsumoto said nothing but pulled his mouth into a sharp line. It was enough confirmation for Ward — both that the statement was true and that Matsumoto had morals. Enough even not to badmouth the competition.
“You don’t get to the top of anything, though, without knowing who’s below you, reaching for your ankles.”
Matsumoto stayed silent.
“I know you didn’t do this. But I need to know who did. There aren’t a lot of cyber-docs in the city, but there are more than two SB investigators can tackle in a morning, and we’re kind of on the clock here.”
“I’m not sure that I can help you. As I said, I—”
“Yeah, you didn’t see them, I know. They’d have done their due diligence — the woman who died, she was smart. Really smart. Too smart to just ask around for a suitable doc. They’d have known ahead of time who would help, and they’d have walked in there with something valuable to trade for the work, knowing that the doc would say yes.”
Matsumoto began to think about it.
“He’d have to be good — not just some back-alley ripper,” Ward went on. “And he’d have to be sympathetic to the plight of the common criminal.”
“Hmm?” Matsumoto raised his eyebrow again.
“Willing to do some shady stuff, no questions asked, no paper trail.”
“Mmm.” Matsumoto nodded.
“Probably open late — doubt these guys would be caught out in the daytime with all the drones and sentinels around. Oh, and there’d have to be an entrance without a door-scanner.”
Matsumoto laughed gently. “Is that all?”
Ward nodded. “They were shades. Here for who-knows-how-long before the woman turned up dead. That means they didn’t go through any linked-doorways, didn’t buy anything while they were here. But they’d have had to find a doc when they arrived, someone willing to do the mods, and good enough, too.”
Ward could see Arza out of the corner of his eye, nodding along as she mentally noted what he was saying. Extrapolation came with experience. Ward knew how to be a shade in the axis — undetected and undetectable — Erica didn’t, so she hadn’t thought about the implications of how they’d have moved around. She still didn’t know who ‘they’ were, even. As far she was concerned, the only person on her radar was Sadler. She wasn’t thinking beyond that.
Matsumoto drew in a long breath and rolled his lips into a wide line. “There are perhaps two doctors,” he said, the last word dripping with venom, “capable of — and unscrupulous enough to perform such surgeries.”
“Two is good. Which one came to mind first?”
“Timothy Ostriker.”
“Where’s his clinic?”
“Bucharest Lane.” All the streets in Old-Town were named after human capital cities.
“And the other?”
“Sakzan Ootooka.”
Arza scoffed out of turn. “A Martian?” Of course, they didn’t call themselves ‘Martians’, but that was the translation into English. They weren’t fond of it, but it was used often enough to stick.
Matsumoto curled a satisfied smile. “Does that surprise you?”
Arza regained herself. “No, I’m just a little…”
“Surprised,” Ward finished her sentence. “Matsumoto — Ootooka. Where’s his clinic?”
“South Phnom-Penh Street.”
Ward nodded and offered his hand over the counter. Matsumoto reached out and took it, returning the nod.
“I trust that my name will not come up?” he asked.
“Of course.” Ward smiled briefly and tried to pull away. Matsumoto held on and looked down, turning his hand over so that Ward’s knuckles pointed upwards.
“This is fine craftsmanship,” he said quietly, staring at it like it was gleaming steel. It was indistinguishable from the real thing for anyone but a tried and true cyber-doc. His thumb found the dips between the knuckles and moved them around a little. “Martian?”
Ward nodded. “Yeah.”
Matsumoto didn’t wait for an invitation before he started moving up Ward’s arm, squeezing with both hands along his wrist, then elbow, then bicep, and up to his shoulder. Ward accommodated by leaning over the counter, staring at Arza, who looked uncomfortable. Had she not known he’d had his arm replaced after an accident? Was it not in her research on him or in the Security Bureau file she’d been given? If she’d been given one, that was. Maybe Moozana hadn’t provided her with one at all. That was an interesting thought. Ward wondered if the detail was left out intentionally, or whether Arza just didn’t have the clearance to access that information. Either way, whatever had happened, her look of mild discomfort was enough to tell Ward that she’d been caught off guard by it.
Matsumoto made a humming sound, finally releasing Ward as he reached his neck, prodding carefully with his fingers. “Good work. Yes. Bu
t not perfect.”
Ward shrugged again. “It does the job.”
Matsumoto smiled with an air of professional courtesy. “Still, the city’s finest should have the best. How are your fine motor skills? Any chronic pain? Aches? I noticed some diminished sensation.”
Ward straightened his jacket. “I do all right.”
“Do you?” Matsumoto held up his probing hand. A long pin glinted between his fingers.
Ward grumbled and turned away. “Thanks for everything.”
“Wait — take a card. If you decide that—”
The door opened and Ward proffered it to Arza. “I know where to find you.”
Matsumoto bowed slightly, and then the door closed, and they were alone in the street.
“You didn’t mention you were an Aug,” she mused airily, a coy grin on her face.
“I’m not.”
“But Matsumoto—”
“Helped us out with the case.”
“Yeah, but he—”
“Look, Arza,” Ward said, his voice hard. “There’s plenty about me you don’t know. You start concerning yourself with it, instead of the case, and we’re going to have a problem, okay?”
She cleared her throat. “Sorry, I just—”
“We’ll start at Phnom-Penh. It’s closer.”
“Ward?”
He looked at her but said nothing.
“Who was ‘they’? You said a man and a woman. Do you know that Sadler had an accomplice?”
Ward rubbed his eyes. He needed more coffee. “Yeah. Well, no. It’s a guess — but an educated one. I don’t think Sadler would come here alone to try and pull a job like this. There’s two of them, at least. Maybe three. Who knows. But what I do know is that Sadler had the sort of mods to help her make a two-click shot. But someone else shot her from that distance, so they probably got modded, too. Jobs like this… They hedge their bets. It’s easy to get spotted in a city like Eudaimonia. If Sadler was the shooter and had the mods, then was made or killed, then there’d be no one to take the shot. No, she’d have had a secondary shooter with her. And he’s the one that shot her. I just don’t know why. Yet.”