“How’s that?”
I zoomed in. There were three, from the look of it. They were in Pyt-Yahk. The Pit. Great.
“You know the area?” he asked.
“I know it.”
“How long you need?”
“It depends. I’m on it. Anything else?”
“That’s it.”
“Then screw you, and I’ll see you later.”
“You know, Ramirez uses you because he thinks you’re the best,” he said.
“Yeah, right.”
“Seriously, you’ve got a sixth sense for finding them once you’re in there. You—”
I hung up on him. I was still sitting on the edge of the bed when the alarm went off. I killed it and got up.
My dead hand was cool on my face when I rubbed my eyes, but at least the twitch was gone; all part of the Stillwell package. In the two years since the tanker went down, Heinlein’s new toy went public. The easy way out was easier than ever, and it made Heinlein a fuck-ton more cash. Those veins were full of Heinlein-approved, version M10 nanoblood now, which was pretty much the same as Huma—newer and better. No more twitching, no more numbness or tingling. It almost felt real.
They could even upgrade it remotely from Heinlein, so no more stints in the drainage chair. It was worth it for that alone.
I got out of bed and called my guy Yavlinski in Bullrich. It took a few tries, but he picked up.
“Flax, what the hell?” He sounded half-dead.
“We got three in the Pit.”
“What the hell time is it?”
“If you want to keep getting paid, Yavlinski, it’s time for you to get up.”
He sighed and swore under his breath.
“Where?”
“Open your ears—the fucking Pit.”
He swore again.
“You hear me?”
“Yeah, I heard you.”
“I got a lead, but I need to narrow it down. Any of your guys call anything in?”
“Not today.”
“My info says there’re three together. One of your guys has them somewhere.”
“If he does, he’s probably waiting until the goddamn sun comes up to call me,” he said.
“Yeah, well I’m not.”
He grumbled some more, but he got the message.
“I’ll call you back.” He hung up.
It was easier a year back, but you learn to spot trouble when you’re third tier, and they spotted it. No one knew why, but word got out: they’re rounding up thirds. The ones that got rounded up didn’t come back. When an outsider came in and sniffed around, they scattered like roaches.
I fell back on paid snitches. Yavlinski knew everyone because he dealt in every kind of smack there was, plus black-market meds. With most folks steering clear of the free clinics now, he was the closest thing to health care a lot of them had. That put him in the know, and he liked money enough to run the side racket of kickbacks for each verified carrier he sent my way. I gave him the clinic names and patient lists, and he had his dealers track them down. If he found a real carrier or helped me catch one Singh picked up, Stillwell paid me, I paid Yavlinski, and he paid his guys. Everyone was happy. Except the ones that got rounded up.
I flicked on the light in the bathroom and brushed my teeth. My new place was a step up from the last, and a long way from Bullrich. It had hot water all the time, AC in the summer, and steady heat in the winter. I had five rooms all to myself. Not bad for a third from Bullrich.
I had some time before I got a call back. I worked out, then hit the shower. I let the steam build, then got wet and lathered up.
I was older, but my body was still lean and hard. A few more scars, but except for the hand, I still looked like I did in my fight days. I ran my hands over my scalp and laced my fingers across the back of my neck. Behind my ear, I felt the scar under my thumb.
One night about a year ago, Nico showed up at my place. He told me to get in the car and not to ask questions. He took me somewhere where a guy put me under and I woke up with the scar. A new piece of tech showed up on the JZI. They couldn’t dig out Huma’s kill switch, but the shunt would keep it from going off, when the time came. That was the plan. He kept the whole thing off the record. He never said anything else about it, and neither did I, but I thought he made some kind of devil’s deal that night.
Singh and the rest of them didn’t know that I could hear them. Whenever one turned, I picked it up. The closer I was, the louder it got. If they ever found out, they’d round me up too, right alongside the rest of them.
I’d just toweled off when the call came back.
“Flax, I got them.”
“Where?”
“The Pit, like you said. One of my guys picked them up late last night. He’ll meet you there.”
He sent the coordinates to my GPS. The spot was deeper in than Singh thought, but not too far off.
“Got it.”
“The guy wants dope, on top of the credits.”
“It’s a good thing I know you, then.”
I hung up.
Those guys were always after more, but the fact was they worked cheap, and it was Stillwell’s dime. I’d have the deal done and the targets trucked out in time for lunch.
Part of me didn’t like it, but it was what it was. Every one of them I picked up was one more revivor off the street. They’d kept the average Joe in the dark so far, but behind the scenes no one sugarcoated it; it was coming, and when it did, anything was better than that many jacks tearing up the city.
Anything.
Zoe Ott—The Blue Oyster Bar
“Another drink?”
I looked up from the heavy rocks glass I’d been idly turning on a cocktail napkin. The bartender had come over and was smiling down at me. He was handsome and dressed to the nines. He smiled and his eyes were flirtatious, but it was all an act; he was just sucking up. Underneath, I could tell he looked down on me. When I went out these days, it was always to fancy, upscale places like the Blue Oyster, but I hated them all.
“Just keep them coming,” I said. I looked out the window to my right and saw snow falling on the sidewalk outside. In the glass, I could see my faint reflection, and my eyelids had gotten heavy. I looked the part; my clothes cost more than some people’s cars, and a diamond solitaire hung just under the Ouroboros tattoo whose red eye stared from over my jugular, where the snake swallowed his tail. My hair was pulled back in a tight bun, speared through with silver chopsticks. I looked as good as I supposed I could look, but the drinking was getting away from me again. I hoped the guy showed up soon so I could just get it over with and go home.
The bartender kept up the smile and nodded, then walked away. I watched the snow come down until I saw his hand put a fresh napkin in front of me, then put a new rocks glass, half-filled with ouzo, on top of it. He took the empty one away as I picked up the new glass and swallowed half of it.
While I waited, I tried to remember how many people I’d killed. I always remembered the first one all those years ago because it was an accident, and I always remembered Ted because he deserved it, but after that it got
