Never before had I inspected a Neural-Interface. It was a work of art in its own right: various spark plugs, alternating dynamos, vacuum tubes, and dozens of other small devices circled a central metal core where the plug was attached. Miniature pumps began to oscillate faster as the “brain” warmed up, sparking as it began to transfer data to the terminal. It was an engineering marvel, an analog computer stuffed into a small space. While I might have some animosity toward shut-off coppertops, I could still appreciate their complexity.
The centre of the office held a large server-like block of hardware. The Neural-Interfaces were all connected to it, with several wires coming off it from the top, probably connected to antennas which broadcasted right to the Plate. Had I been riding up in the Rotorbird with Sinclair, I would have seen whatever antenna array they had for this thing. It had to be massive for all the data that must be running through this little space.
Thankfully, the connected Neural-Interfaces had their Automatics’ serial numbers attached. They were from a variety of machines — E1-1S, R0-GR, among others. One NI that was much less rusted than the others had the code RU-D1 on it.
Rudi. Jaeger’s Automatic.
I pulled that Neural-Interface from the contraption, hearing the coolant devices slowing down as the strain on them was lessened by one.
But even with one less Neural-Interface, this machine was still dangerous. The 1911 in my possession did the rest, destroying whatever processors were active and springing a leak in the coolant system. If any NIs were still intact now, they wouldn’t be in about ten minutes, after they overheated.
Six o’clock was when the lights went off. I assumed both cops and mobsters would be sprinting over here after hearing all the noise we’d made. That gave me thirty minutes to clear out before things got ugly, which they definitely would, seeing as this warehouse was situated smack dab in the heart of Maranzano’s territory. The less I interacted with that old school Mob, the better. I stumbled outside, suddenly reminded that a chunk of my thigh was still missing. My grey slacks were soaked through with blood. I’d try not to get any on the seat of my car when I got back to the 5th. For now, unfortunately, I had to lug a case of gold and a Neural-Interface across town on foot. At least no one would fuck with me when I looked like this.
Especially not Masters. He was my next stop.
CHAPTER 18
“ALLEN, LOOK AT ME. YA GOOD?”
Allen sat in the same folding seat in the Rotorbird that he’d begun the journey in, the steely blue lights of his eyes bouncing across the metal of the bird. His hands shook, and the metal plates of his palms clicked against each other. Looking outside, he could see the vast ocean of buildings in the Anchor, a nice change of scenery compared to the warehouse. Sinclair had just come back from booking Belik and had felt it appropriate to keep Allen from going downstairs just yet.
“Allen, look at me. I need ya to focus now. Roche will handle the case, but right now you need to keep yourself from goin’ belly-up … if you can. If you had skin, you’d be positively green right now.”
Allen’s eyes shot up to meet Sinclair’s. The cop had a look of understanding on his face, clearly empathetic to the anguish Allen was experiencing.
“Patrick, I killed a man. He’s dead because of me.”
“Yeah, I saw. You killed him, but you had to. Try not to think about it anymore.”
“Police doctrine states that no perpetrator should be fired upon without instigation, and —”
“Allen, he provoked you, since he was tryin’ to kill us. I need ya to focus on somethin’, okay? You may have killed him, sure, but you saved my life, and Roche’s as well. If Elias had fired the Suppression Rifle in that situation, the electrical discharge would have destabilized the Rotorbird, and we would have ended up in the ceiling, or flipped, or worse. You saved the lives of two officers today — well, an officer and a vigilante. I think that’s fair, eh?”
“I attempted to render him inoperable by aiming at the Tesla Battery. However, I found the armour to be too tough to puncture using a regular firearm. The only possibility to prevent more mortality was …”
“I know, bud. I do.” Sinclair sat in the seat beside Allen, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You need to calm down before ya hurt yourself. I need you to take a breath … if you can breathe.”
Allen stopped shaking momentarily, sucking air into his synthetic lungs and holding it for some time before expelling it violently. He began shaking again, his jaw quivering as he continued to try to calm down. Sinclair kept a close eye on him.
Suddenly Allen jumped out of his seat, threw himself from the aircraft down onto the helipad, and spewed a clear liquid from his mouth onto the floor. Sinclair jumped down to help him up, but Allen yelled at him to stay back. “Don’t touch it. Highly concentrated hydrochloric acid. I don’t want you losing any skin.”
“Didn’t think you metal men had any fluids in ya, to be honest. Other than alcohol, that is.”
“Most of us don’t. We have no saliva for initial digestion, though we contain acid in our stomach-like compartment for breakdown and absorption of organic molecules for our metabolism. We operate similarly to you, though with exceptions.”
“Yeah, like the whole replacin’ of your limbs … thing,” Sinclair said. “Sometimes I wish we could do that. Be easier than having to get a broken arm worked and pulled for three months before it even rotates properly, eh?” He rotated his stiff left arm.
Allen picked
