20 – Meet

  Tony sipped his coffee, leaning back in his chair as he watched the crowd stream past and the cars crawl bumper to bumper toward the silver-and-black tower in the distance. The Cross Building. Impressive, maybe, if it weren’t dwarfed by the Arcology Engineering and Lucid Cybernetics towers flanking it. Cross was a big corp, but next to its neighbors, it looked like a mom-and-pop. The others were multi-planetary—Luna, Mars, and probably a few moons Tony didn’t even know about.

  As he took another sip, he noticed one of his AUI windows flash, and he saw a tiny 74 at the bottom of it. He stared, expanding the window to display the near-constant stream of pings the passing drones were sending to Nora, querying her for Tony’s weapons license. He scrolled up in the window, chuckling, when he saw that in the entire previous month, he’d gotten two such queries in the Blast.

  “Nervous nannies in District One, I guess.”

  Nora ignored the comment but announced, “Tony, you just received an invoice on Shepherd’s SOA account. Leadhammer Red, the club where you confronted Wasp’s crew—”

  “Did you really think I’d forgotten the name of the club?”

  “No, of course not. In any event, the club has sent you an invoice for the repairs required after your altercation.”

  Tony sighed, setting his cup down. “How much?”

  “6743 Sol-bits.”

  “For one booth cushion?”

  “The itemized breakdown includes damage from Koto’s shot. Apparently, it hit the bar behind you, resulting in the loss of merchandise and some authentic hardwood damage.”

  “So, I’m getting charged for dodging a bullet?” Tony waved a hand, dismissing the subject. He figured the club didn’t have a bit-vault address for Koto on file, so they couldn’t charge the dead man—no way they’d eat the expense. “Forget it. Easy come, easy go. I’m 75k richer today than I was yesterday morning.”

  It was cold out, and Tony was one of only a handful of café patrons who’d opted to sit out on the little patio. He had his collar high, his flesh-and-blood hand in the pocket, as he sipped the coffee with his cybernetic arm. The brew steamed profusely in the chilly air, and Tony enjoyed how the warmth transferred from his drink to his numbing lips. His thoughts were similarly chilly as he waited.

  When he’d woken from his fitful night’s sleep, he’d only been a little surprised to find an encrypted message from Eric waiting for him. He’d intended for word to get back to him, after all. He supposed the only surprise had been how quickly his former best friend had reached out. After all, he’d been radio silent since Tony’s first night in the district when Azalea had tried to sell him out. His SOA handle hadn’t changed since then; Eric had the means to reach out.

  The message had been simple: Meet me today at noon. You pick the place, so I can’t set up a trap—someplace public and safe. Message me at this address when you’re ready.

  He wasn’t stupid. As soon as he gave Eric the meeting place, he’d be at the other man’s mercy. With his resources, Eric could fly a drone down and level half a city block with a bomb. It wasn’t something he would do—too messy and inelegant—but he could. So, as soon as he disabused himself of any notion of safety, Tony decided just to head down to Fifth Avenue, in full view of the Cross building, and call Eric in.

  He did his best to look composed and nonchalant, but inside, he was feeling the pressure. This was the first part of the plan that, if he failed, he might not be able to recover from. He had to get Eric to play ball. He had to get him to go to bat with Jen. The only problem was that Eric knew Tony. He’d smell bullshit from ten klicks out, so Tony had to be convincing—and he wasn’t a good actor.

  Of course, Eric arrived in a town car—long, sleek, with glossy burgundy paint and impenetrable black windows. It pulled up to the curb, fusion reactor sending steam rumbling through the tailpipes. It was a million-bit ride, and Eric wanted Tony to see it, wanted him to know how much he’d moved up in the world since his betrayal. Was it a flex or an admission of guilt? Tony supposed it depended on how he wanted to take it. “Guilt.”

  The driver got out and opened the back door, and Eric—tall and lean with combed-back blond hair—got out, his fur-lined overcoat opening just enough to reveal the ten-thousand-bit tailored suit beneath. He stood on the sidewalk, blocking the driver from closing his door, and stared at Tony for several seconds. His blue-gray eyes glinted in the pale light but gave no emotion away. After that long, pregnant pause, he walked over and sat down across from him.

  “This isn’t a safe place to meet.”

  Tony shrugged, still leaning back, slouched down in his chair, left hand in his pocket. “Looking good, Eric. I guess you got some promotion for selling me out? Jen finally took you into her bed?”

  Eric scowled, but he didn’t bite. “I wasn’t joking.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes drifting to the towers blotting out the sky. “It isn’t safe here.”

  “If you’re gonna snipe me, better make sure your guy is good.” Tony set his cup down, but let his left eye flick toward his mechanical hand in the veiled suggestion of a threat.

  “I’m not the one you need to worry about. I couldn’t hide this from Jen.”

  “This?”

  “This meeting, you asshole! Why are you back here? Why’d you go to Az? You pick up a narc habit or something? Jesus! Your little encounter with Wasp’s crew is all over the local net.”

  “Look, Eric, I’ve had time to think, and the simple fact is that I’m not cool with exile. This is my city. I want to clear the air because I intend to operate in this district, and—”

  Eric growled, leaning forward, his voice picking up bass as he cut Tony off. “Are you fucking stupid, man? You’re supposed to be dead! You know what kind of trouble you’re in? What kind of trouble you’re making for me? Now that we’re not pretending you’re dead, Jen’s giving me the ice, brother—”

  “Nah, you don’t call me that anymore. We can let bygones be bygones; hell, I’d even do work for you, but we’re not brothers—not anymore.” Tony lifted his cup, sipped, found the coffee too cold, and set the cup back down.

  Eric deflated, leaning back. “I was supposed to kill you.”

  “You want a cookie for letting me live? You should have died with me. That’s what brothers do. We should have gone out bloody. We should have taken all those fuckers with us. Together, we could have cleaned out half of Cross Corp’s executive tree.” Tony felt his pulse quicken, his blood getting hot as true vehemence tinged his words. His voice was low, aimed at Eric, and not loud enough to project over the sounds of the traffic, but Eric paled at his words.

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  Eric glanced left and right, his blond brows drawing together. “Don’t fucking say that, idiot! I thought you wanted to get back on the board? That doesn’t happen if you go around talking like that!”

  “Look, I’m just saying what should have happened. That ship’s sailed, right? The heat of the moment is past. I went through some hell after you dumped me. I was on the edge for a long time.” Tony tapped his index finger against his temple. “I’m back, though. Let me carve out a piece of this city for myself again. I don’t give a shit about you and Jen.” It was a bluff, of course, but Tony felt like it sounded convincing.

  “It ain’t up to me, br-man.” Eric sighed again. “I can try to talk to her. She…honestly, I thought she’d be chopping heads this morning after your little stunt, but it was almost like…” He shook his head. “You should’ve disappeared. If you had enough scratch to come back here—to get yourself operating again—you should’ve just left. There are other cities.”

  Tony tilted his head to the side, smirking as he waved a hand toward the towers behind Eric. “Not like this one. I spent years building my rep here. People know me. I’ll get my cred back in no time if you and Jen will just leave me alone. Isn’t she satisfied? Didn’t I pay enough?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know that she’ll want you”—he mimicked Tony, waving a hand at the tall buildings all around them—“out here. After what she did, she can’t possibly feel secure knowing you’re alive.” He shook his head, managing to look remorseful, as though he hadn’t known all along that Jen was going to kill Emily. Even if he didn’t, as he claimed, Tony couldn’t forgive him for going along with what happened after. They should have made a stand. They should have—

  Eric continued speaking, cutting off Tony’s runaway thoughts. “She’s not like me, though. She’s like a cat, and she doesn’t feel fear the way a normal person does. You’ve noticed that, I’m sure. Hell, you’re the one who broke things off with her. What did you say at the time? Something about how she forgot you existed after she caught you?”

  Tony exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to push clamoring memories back into their respective closets. “It’s like you said; she’s not a normal person.”

  “That’s not what—”

  Tony waved his hand. “It’s not important. The question is, can she just forget about me again? Shit, man, she doesn’t ever have to see me. It’s a big city.”

  Eric nodded. “I can talk to her. Maybe. She’s known you’re alive for a while, after all.” His words demonstrated that he really didn’t know Jen. There was no way in hell she’d be content to let Tony have any peace. Now that he’d shown signs of life, made a bit of a splash in his old stomping grounds, she’d be ready to play again—a cat with a mouse, to take up Eric’s clumsy metaphor.

  “I’d appreciate it. I’m ready to move on—the part of me you guys screwed over is gone.”

  “What part was that? Your eye?”

  Tony didn’t smile at the lame attempt at humor. He shook his head, shifting to sit up straighter. “Nah. Just a piece of my soul. I didn’t need it anyway.” His voice was flat, and Eric’s faint smile faded as he stood up and gestured to the town car.

  “I’m out of time. Meetings.”

  Tony flicked the dregs of coffee in his cup onto the pavement. “You’ll let me know the score?”

  “Yeah. I’ll get back to you soon.” He started to turn, but paused, turning to look over his fur-covered collar. “Hey, T?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t a good friend at the end, there. I know I can’t make it up, but—”

  “Forget it, Eric. I told you that piece of me is dead.” Tony stared, left eye cold, right eye a glowering red coal, and Eric folded. He ducked his head, turned, and walked back to his car like a beaten dog. Tony watched him go, the city’s chill settling over his skin like breath from the grave. He’d told the truth about part of him being dead, but that dead part of him was still hungry for its pound of flesh.

  He sat there, staring into space, long enough that the barista from inside the café came out to ask if he wanted more coffee. It wasn’t that kind of place—with people waiting on tables—so Tony wondered if it was just slow business or if he looked particularly pathetic. Whatever the case, he took another cup and continued to sit, enjoying the chill in the air as he did battle with himself.

  A strident voice in the back of his brain was suggesting he track down a guy he once knew—he couldn’t remember his name, but he knew his handle had been something with the word “black” in it. “Black Rat?” Tony muttered, but then shook his head. It didn’t matter. The point was, he remembered the guy talking about how the right kind of tech could turn any fusion-powered vehicle into a nuke. Tony looked at the Cross building and let his dark thoughts run rampant as he sipped his coffee.

  It was an entertaining mental exercise, nothing more. He’d never be able to live with something like that. There were too many people in that tower—too many folks who worked there out of necessity, not loyalty. Besides, that tower was big, despite how small it looked beside its neighbors. He wasn’t sure a nuke that size would even bring it down, let alone prevent the execs on the upper levels from escaping.

  “Just a thought,” he said, grunting as he finally managed to get himself to break out of his dark reverie. He swirled the remnants of his coffee around in the bottom of his cup, then tossed the cool liquid back. “Tip that girl again, Nora.”

  He walked to the street and stood there for a minute, his right hand hanging, as always, near the grip of his pistol. He could see on his mini-map that his cab was about thirty seconds away—not bad, considering he hadn’t given Nora any clues as to how long he intended to sit at that café table sulking. He’d feel sorry for the cab if it weren’t an AI; he’d had it circling for nearly two hours. “On the bright side, now that I’m out in the open, I can stay somewhere nicer.”

  “Will we be returning to the Verdant Mile?”

  “Nah. Let’s go somewhere with a little more character. Steer us toward the Meridian Arms.” He couldn’t help the small smile that turned up the corners of his lips as he remembered the last time he’d been there. He’d done a job with a crew out of Boston who were staying there, and they’d put on a hell of a party. Of course, Eric had been there, too—but not Jen. No, back then, they’d only occasionally done jobs for her.

  His cab pulled up, and Tony slid into the passenger compartment, sliding into the seat beside his forlorn-looking duffel bag, just as a fat drop of icy rain slapped against his forehead. “Looks like we got moving just in time.”

  The cab started rolling, and its AI, in an overly cheerful, too-loud voice, said, “Greetings, passenger. Indeed, I am registering rainfall! I hope you have an umbrella. Seventeen minutes to your destination.”

  Tony leaned back, trying to relax as he watched the rain pick up outside, dancing on the pavement, off the glass, concrete, and chrome. The Meridian Arms sat in a quarter of District One that bore the same name. It was a narrow wedge of old streets caught between the glass spires of the newer megastructures and the lower commercial tiers of pre-AI-War towers. Technically, it was “Heritage Zone Six,” but everyone called it the Meridian.

  There weren’t many places in District One where you could see the sky, but the Meridian was one—at least parts of it. It was home to stubborn, ancient architecture that refused to bow to the new order. Ornate facades crowded between holo-ads, and weathered stone cornices jutted like the bones of an older city under layers of shiny new materials. Tony watched the pedestrians shift—suit-clad corpos giving way to a newer breed, the kind who still wore suits but with a little more style. That was the Meridian for you—still corpo, still District One, but with more soul.

  When his cab pulled up to the hotel, Tony stepped out under the awning, tugging his duffel behind him, and stared up at the sign—a looping gold script that flickered faintly through the rain. The building itself was six stories of stone and glass, the kind that looked built to last a century and somehow had outdone itself. The doorman was a chrome-limbed relic of a synth in a long coat, his face a brass mask, and he gave Tony a nod that said he’d seen his kind before—I’m watching you.

  Inside, the lobby was a study in tired elegance. The air smelled faintly of ozone and polish, and the walls were paneled in old mahogany sealed under crystal-glass to keep the rot out. A cracked chandelier cast amber light over a mosaic floor that still bore scorch marks from some long-ago skirmish. Behind a brass-trimmed desk, another ancient synth regarded Tony, its stylized LED eyes flickering between soft blues and welcoming golds. Somewhere nearby, a piano played—real keys, Tony thought, not a recording—and the tune was slow, sweet, and just melancholic enough to fit the place.

  Tony nodded, stepping toward the reception desk. It wasn’t luxury, but the place had character—exactly what the doctor ordered. “Now,” he muttered, “to get my hands on some good whiskey.”