Element zero, p.2
Element Zero, page 2
part #3 of Revivors Series
He waved his hand. “Maybe it’s stupid, but I wanted to tell you that we are okay. I wanted to tell you that even though you couldn’t stop the bomb that day, we are persevering. We’re strong. If another attack comes, we will overcome that too. If my mother was alive to see us still here, she would be very happy. You know?”
“It isn’t stupid. And thanks.”
Someone yelled across the restaurant in Chinese, and he glanced back before getting up.
“No charge for the food,” he said.
“Thanks again.”
“When you find the prick that did it, though, kill him for us.”
He wormed his way away from my table and back through the crowd.
“I’ll do that.”
Incoming call. The words flashed in the air between me and the empty chair across the table. It was Van Offo. Whatever he wanted had to be important.
Call accepted.
Wachalowski here.
You didn’t answer your phone.
I know that. What do you want?
The data sweeps just got a hit. They think it’s related to revivor tech.
Where?
Black Rock train yard.
I brought up details on the location and found it off the projects of Dandridge. The satellite photos showed that a big chunk of it was out of commission. A graveyard of retired freight carriers sat half-buried in the snow, waiting for the scrap heap.
It looks abandoned.
A flyby picked up heat and a big electrical signature. Magnetic scan suggests at least one heavy-duty lock. Someone’s there.
Got it.
I browsed through the satellite footage and the more I did, the more convinced I became that we were dealing with Fawkes. Since he’d gotten out of stasis and rejoined the living, we knew he’d disappeared somewhere inside the UAC. That meant sticking to places no one wanted to go. Even when he’d directed things from his box on the other side of the planet, that had been his MO. The city’s underbelly was big, bigger than it should have been. It was easy to get lost in, and he knew that.
Who were they communicating with? I asked.
They were unable to track the remote location, so we’re going in. SWAT is assembling now. Get back here.
Understood. I’m on my way.
I got up and made my way to the front door, a little bell ringing as I pushed it open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The temperature had dropped and the snow was picking up. I joined the flow of foot traffic and started back toward the garage to get my car.
Any one of these people, I thought as I walked among them. Any number of them could be carrying the Huma injection. How many would Fawkes feel he needed before he decided to go ahead with whatever his plan was?
At the intersection, the light had changed again and I stood with the rest, waiting while snow began to blanket the vehicles that piled up along the side street in front of us. The spot where the revivor had stood was less than ten feet away from me.
The kid was right, though. The wound had healed, and you couldn’t tell. The city had been bruised but not beaten.
So far.
Calliope Flax—Bridgeway Towers Apartments, Unit #1042
Every night, it was the same goddamned dream.
The faces and the voices changed, and even the body I looked out of changed, but it was the same place every time.
I was strapped to a gurney while guys in rubber suits pushed me down a hall. I could see and hear, but I couldn’t move. A door crashed open and they took me through to some big warehouse or hangar. Sheets of heavy plastic, some specked with blood, hung from hooks to screen off work areas, and I could see metal tanks with heavy hatches down there, fingers and palms pressed against glass ports. More guys in those hooded suits moved through the rows, and in an open spot in the middle, dirty naked people were on their knees, their necks chained to metal posts.
They wheeled me through and shoved open one of the plastic sheets. The space inside was full of equipment—an oxygen tank and trays of probes and wires. Shapes in white coats stood over me. One prepped a hypo, and I felt it prick my bicep.
“Is he ready?” someone asked.
He? I thought.
“Yes, proceed.”
Someone pressed a plastic mask to my face. Cold air went up my nose and things went blurry. One of them moved a bright light over me as they crowded around. Another one of them used a pair of shears to cut down the middle of my shirt, then leaned in with a fistful of long needles.
Who I was in the dream seemed to change. This time my chest was smooth, with no hair, but it belonged to a guy. I felt a sharp prick as the first needle went in. An old man’s hand pushed it through the skin, then stuck a wire to the other end. Then he stuck the next one in, and the next.
Thoughts that weren’t mine ran through my head: how it wasn’t my fault and I didn’t know why I was there. I didn’t know who the people were. No one would talk to me.
The doc leaned in and shone a light in my eye. In back of him, hands pushed a big piece of hardware over my chest. I could make out a big tube with a glass lens in it as they adjusted the rig until it was aimed at my heart.
“Clear,” someone said.
There was a loud snap, and a low hum came from the tube. My hairs stood on end. The needles that stuck out of me shook a little, and a sick feeling dropped into my gut.
“Steady. . . ”
“Initiating stasis field.”
There was another snap, and pain bolted through my chest. My eyes rolled, and bile burned up my throat. The docs faded, and the lights went out. . . .
I jerked awake in bed and grabbed my chest. My heart pounded under my hand, and I wiped the sweat off my face. Static hissed in my ears, that white noise in the back of my head that never stopped.
“Fucking thing . . . ”
The dream was real; that was the worst part. Nico called it passive feedback. It started after the tanker. I was dead for more than two minutes out there, and I didn’t turn revivor, but it was close. He shocked my heart and brought me back, but the static kicked in then, background noise from the other Huma carriers—Fawkes’s little army. Every time we grabbed one of them and took them wherever it was they went, later I’d have the dream.
That receiver in their heads, in my head, waited day in and day out for Fawkes to give the order. When he did, that would be it; dead and back again in under a minute. For most of them. Not for me. At least, that was the plan.
In the dark, I heard my phone beep.
What time is it?
Before I’d shipped out, eight was early, but in boot camp, I found out what early was. I marched and ran drills before sunup like a robot, and hated every second. Two months in, though, I got used to it. Six months in, I learned to like it. Over there, it was the only time of day that wasn’t like a furnace. By eight it was hot as hell, and the sun never let up—no clouds, no rain, just dust, sweat, and bugs.
I yawned and rolled over. I wondered for the millionth time where that place in the dream was. Where they took the carriers we found and what they did with them.
It was still dark out, but down on the street the traffic was gearing up. I grabbed my phone and checked the time: 4:38 a.m. It beeped again.
The screen said SINGH, RIDDHI. I flipped it open.
“What the fuck do you want, Singh?”
“Rise and shine, soldier,” he said. He sounded up. I pushed the covers away and sat on the edge of the bed.
“You’re an asshole. You know that?”
“Yeah, I know.”
Singh was part of my squad at Stillwell Corps. After the rat’s nest Nico stirred up two years back, the UAC got hard-core about home defense. Stillwell took the bid to watch the streets and got big, quick. Word got out they wanted firsts—ex-military types looking for action—and just like that I doubled my pay, with the full package thrown in. I got to soldier again, and found out I’d missed it. On the record, we watched for terrorist threats. Off the record, we spent most of our time on one threat: Heinlein’s little field test gone wrong.
“Get to the point, Singh.”
“We found another hot spot.”
Hot spot. That was Singh-speak for Huma carriers, the M10-positive, third-tier dregs.
“So tell Ramirez,” I said.
“I did. He said to call you.”
Singh always found them first. He never went in—that was me—but Singh found them first.
“How do you track the damn things?” I asked.
“I’m just that good.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“You got the biceps; I got the brains.”
I made a fist. That was a nerve I didn’t like touched.
“I’m going to pound the fuck out of you, Singh,” I said, but my heart wasn’t in it.
“Promises. You want the location?”
“More than life.”
The data came in and I laid it over the map. The mark was close to Bullrich.
“What a shock,” I said.
“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.
Seriously, you’ve got a sixth sense for finding them once you’re in there. . . .
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 fuzzy. Ai had taught me a lot over the past year, and directing that particular ability was one of the most important, probably. No more accidents, and no more guesswork. When it had to be done, I could do it quickly, easily, and painlessly.
“You ought to slow down,” a man said as he passed. I looked up and saw an older guy with gray hair and a gold watch stop near my table and grin. He was doing the fatherly thing, I guess. Or maybe he had a fetish for weirdos. There was interest brewing around his head; I could sense it, but I couldn’t tell what his game was.
“Go away.”
“Troubles?” he asked. Was this guy for real? The guy I was waiting for came in every Friday around seven. He stayed for one drink, then went home to his wife. It was almost seven now. I didn’t have time for this.
The room got brighter as I looked into his eyes, and patterns of color appeared around his head. His smile dropped a notch and his eyes got stupid.
“Come here,” I said. He came closer, and I waved for him to lean in. “What do you want?”
“Nothing, I—”
“Did someone send you?”
Genuine confusion rippled through the pattern of colors. “No.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“No, you just . . . You looked lonely,” he said.
I focused on the little ebbs and flows of his mind but didn’t see anything like sympathy. What I saw in there didn’t have anything to do with me. He didn’t think I looked lonely. He thought I looked pathetic and that I might be an easy mark. He was the one who was lonely.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” I told him. “Walk away, and forget you ever thought to come over here.”
I pushed, and his eyelids drooped. He nodded.
“You understand?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Smile, then walk away.”
I let him go. He smiled. I smiled back. He walked away. It was a good thing too, because just then, Marcus Landers walked into the bar.
