Chapter Eighteen

  There was a smudge on the wall just behind the bed, some dirty thumb print from yesteryear a poor bastard left in their boredom, and Malory found herself staring at it when she wasn’t scrolling the network, programming, or trying to figure out what to do with the gift Nadia sent her. It was a little mechanical cat crafted from a lusterless black titanium, and the white sensor wires that functioned as whiskers made her heart full. As soon as she’d unpacked it from its box, Mal connected through her network and ran laps around the small room via remote control. Without an AI to pilot, it stood still near the foot of the bed like a sculpture. She didn’t have the first clue about coding something complex enough to operate the limbs or functions, and since it was considered a proprietary technology, any core kernels on the black markets were worth more than most of the chrome in the Doc’s lab. She knew she’d learn eventually, but she was impatient, and she added a dozen different options to her shopping cart to indulge in the fantasy. She rubbed absentmindedly at the fresh scars on her back—they’d healed well enough, and just as she was ready to get back out into the sprawl of New Detroit and cause more mayhem, the door opened.

  “Good news,” the Doc said. He walked into the room at his full height like an old flightless bird fresh from the hunt. He paused when he saw the cat and contemplated, the intended news forgotten. “That thing is so strange. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. You said your girlfriend built it?”

  “Yeah,” Mal said. She stood from the bed and lifted the cat. It was near weightless. “She’s been a tech fiend since before she could walk.”

  “You find a cheap kernel to control it?” he asked. He leaned forward, his implant eyes scanning for signs of life.

  “Nothing I could afford without plundering the stock exchange,” she said. She cradled it in her arms like a baby. It was the best thing she’d ever owned, and she wanted to equip it with her skeleton-key hack and send it off to collect every dirty secret.

  “Yeah, that makes sense,” he said. He kept staring into the cat’s eyes, and the conversation died. Silence stretched between them.

  “You said you had good news?” Mal prodded.

  “Right,” he said. He coughed and stood up straight. “Right. There’s been a lockdown in the outskirts. NDPD has the whole district cordoned off all the way to the wall.”

  “Why the hell would they do that?” Mal asked. Seemed like a waste of resources, all things considered, and the NDPD never cared enough about the impoverished parts of the city besides extorting to meet monthly quotas.

  “You really need to watch the news feeds,” he said. His eyes lit up, linking an article so she could follow along if she wanted. “On the surface, it’s to contain the spread of a new virulent flu strain that’s been making the rounds and impacting the labor force.”

  “They never bothered with a quarantine any of the other times.” Her old lungs were proof enough of that. They were scarred for well over a decade, and no one gave a fuck.

  “It’s just an excuse,” the Doc said. He sent over another document—one that included references to the information she’d taken from the meat boutique slaughterhouse. “Behind the scenes, ZenTech threw around their weight like a sledgehammer after your stunt. Leveraged every card they held in reserve to force the NDPD to provide plausible cover for the raid they had planned. Really put the nail in the coffin and win the war.”

  “Can we even stop something like that?” she asked. The Black Hands had a lot of members, but compared to the corporate kings of the city, they were children playing in the sand. Mal shuddered at some of the military drones in ZenTech’s arsenal.

  “I don’t know,” the Doc said. He scratched the back of his head; his hair was greasy and unbrushed. Little tangles caught on his fingers. “The higher-ups are gonna try anyway, though. A few of our moles gave estimates of what’s coming, and the value blinded the more aggressive-minded chapter masters into an ill-advised gamble. They don’t just want to stop the attack, they want to seize the loot afterwards.”

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  “You said you had good news,” Mal said. It was a disaster in the making, and she didn’t see a silver lining anywhere.

  “Oh, I do,” he said. He turned to leave the small room and motioned for her to follow. “Come with me. I pulled some of my old stuff out of storage, and I want you to have it.”

  “I’m allowed out?” she asked.

  “Just follow. Ask your questions later.”

  Malory did as she was told, and they went out and down a drab hallway. It was a surreal experience seeing parts of the headquarters that weren’t the lobby or the Doc’s lab, and she didn’t much care for it. There were so many rooms just like hers, all locked tight. How many others were captive there? Door after door passed by until they turned and climbed a narrow staircase, and she managed to count twenty-one. Sure, some were being held for ransom after failed attacks, but she couldn’t shake the suspicion that most were like her, dissidents that rubbed someone above them in the hierarchy the wrong way or went a little rogue. It was another drop to feed the seed planted deep down, the growing idea that membership wasn’t worth it, and roots sprouted to try and anchor to her soul. The Doc kept his word; Mal was out, but she wondered why he didn’t show any concern for the others. She wasn’t special, and she walked free while they continued to rot. At the top of the stairs, he led them past a rec room, a barracks stuffed with filthy hammocks, and a kitchenette that reeked of freshly brewed synth-tea. Malory expected them to board the elevator, but they kept going until they reached an expansive armory.

  “Over there,” he pointed. The walls around them hung enough racked and ready firepower to make a gun nut blush, and each was polished to a sheen that glistened under artificial lights. Where he’d pointed was a table with an assortment of grenades, ammunition, extra magazines, a full suit of bulletproof armor freshly resized, the mask he’d given her ages ago, and her Lantern. Beside the gun was a large black case.

  “What is all this?” Mal asked. She picked up her pistol immediately and relished the familiar weight of steel in her hand. She looked around until she found the holster and strapped it on, satisfied it was back where it belonged.

  “It’s your gear,” he said. He didn’t elaborate, just smiled and watched. There was no better feeling than kitting someone out for battle, not even saving a life that lesser medics could never manage. It gave the same sensation as watching a child open Christmas gifts first thing in the morning, and it was something he’d missed for far too long.

  “I don’t even know how to use most of it,” she said. She moved to the black case, lifted the lid, and stared at the revolving grenade launcher inside. When she lifted it from the foam inserts, she almost dropped it, surprised by the heft. It was a uniform matte black accented by vibrant orange. The cylinders were etched with the Doc’s initials, but she’d never learned his real name. She attached the shoulder strap to each of the anchors, the fibers smooth and well-worn. The thing had seen years of battle, but it was well-maintained.

  “That’s alright. You’ll learn fast,” he said. His smile grew wider as he flooded her network with military manuals, instructions, care routines, video tutorials, and an assortment of personal audio files and memories of first-hand experiences. Every insight, every revelation he’d ever had, the very essence of what made him a monster people whispered about behind his back. He sent it all. She was going to survive, and he’d make damn sure of it.

  “Why are you giving me all this?” she asked. Her head spun from the overload, and she had no clue where to begin.

  “Because I don’t need it anymore, and your freedom comes with a cost,” he said. The smile faded, replaced by dark lines and deep-set wrinkles.

  “They’re sending me,” she said. It made sense. They had firm control over her, and they’d be dumb as rocks not to exercise it. She sorted through the gear and tried to put on the body armor. It was old, but he’d resized it to perfectly fit her smaller frame.

  “You are meant to repel the attack and prove you belong in their good graces again,” he said. He walked up beside her and helped with the straps. “It’s something I had to force through, and it was the only way they were willing to let you out. So, you’ll go, you’ll do it well, and you’ll come back safe. No more edge of death nonsense, understand?”

  “I can’t promise that,” she said. A well of excitement bubbled up, and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t happy being sent. She was still green, all things considered, but the thick of a firefight was where she belonged. It made her feel alive. It wasn’t complicated; there were no politics involved, no crushing weight of a poor socioeconomic lot in life. The essence of combat was just her and her opponents trying to see who could kill the other first. Simple. Clean.

  “You will,” the Doc said. He placed broad hands on her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. “And you’ll mean it, too.”

  “Alright, alright,” she said. She wiggled a bit to adjust to the weight of the gear, and the pressure in the Doc’s grip didn’t relent—it was like he was trying to anchor her there was a permanent aspect of reality. It was touching. “I promise you’ll have to put up with me until you croak from old age, you damn geezer.”

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