When they came, it was almost funny, Stormers crashing in, shouts and smoke, a fucking army invading the empty shell of Pick’s until it was crowded with cops. They found me immediately, of course, kicking my gun away, slapping the bottle onto the floor where it shattered in a spray of booze, and jerking me to my feet.
“Sulle vostre ginocchia!” one of them shouted. I laughed. They were pulling cops from all over the System, trying to man up New York again.
“Fuck,” he muttered in a heavy accent. Hands took hold of me and I was flipped around and shoved to my knees, my bad leg barking with a shaft of white-hot pain. A silicone strap was looped around my wrists and pulled achingly tight. As my hands went numb I was thoroughly frisked, but I had nothing else, and they came up empty. My head was pushed down until I was staring down at the dirty floor, and a gun barrel was positioned against the back of my head. It was a familiar feeling.
“Belay that!” someone shouted, and the whole room went still. The gun was immediately gone.
“Flip him around. We need an OFR scan.”
I was pulled up roughly and spun around, two Stormers holding me in place. Two officers had entered the bar. One was a tall, skinny man in a ridiculously pristine black leather overcoat that gleamed in the dim light. He was tanned and shaved close, his dark hair combed back and perfectly barbered. The other was short and my age, maybe even a little older. He looked out of shape, with a belly not quite hidden by his long overcoat and his hair a thin ring around the edge of his skull. He had a long, ugly nose that had frequently been broken, and carried a digital clipboard that reflected a ghoulish green glow onto his chubby face.
The tall one stepped close to me with sinuous grace, giving the impression of having choreographed the movement the night before, and thrust a small black box into my face. I was partially blinded by a bright red flash, and he snatched the box back, peering down at a tiny Vid screen.
“Cates, Avery,” he announced. Looking up at me, he grinned. “Well, shit, Mr. Cates, it’s a fucking honor to execute you!”
I grinned back. “You’re not executing me. I’m committing suicide by cop.”
He winked, drawing an impressive-looking chrome-plated automatic and cocking the hammer back jauntily. “Happy to be-”
“Wait,” the bald guy said quietly, and the Grinner stopped, glancing over at him. Baldy looked up at me, face blank and his eyes empty pools. This was the guy to worry about in the room, I realized. The Grinner was more concerned with the cut of his coat than anything else. Baldy would cut your balls off. Baldy didn’t look at the Grinner, just tilted the clipboard at him. “He’s on the list.”
“Ah, fuck,” the Grinner moaned, glancing down at the clipboard. “So you are, Mr. Cates. Fuck, that’s Marin’s fucking sig block.” He looked at Baldy, face flushing red. “Do you know how many cops this piece of shit has killed?”
Baldy looked back down at his clipboard. “Doesn’t matter. He’s POI, and if you kill him I will make you a personal project, understood?”
The Grinner’s face drained of color as quickly as it had reddened. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I didn’t mean-”
“Fuck what you meant, Colonel,” Baldy said, turning away and gesturing delicately at his clipboard. “Get him loaded up and let’s clear this building for demo.”
Baldy stalked out of Pick’s, and we both watched him go. Then the Grinner turned back and looked around, flushing again as he stuffed his piece back into its holster. He stepped up to me and ran his blue eyes up and down my body.
“All right, shithead,” he said, finding his grin again. “Chengara it is for you, you lucky, lucky bastard. Give it a few weeks. You’ll think back on the moment when I almost shot you in the head as a high point in your life.” He paused to study me again, his mouth smirking. “Shit, you don’t look like much, Cates,” he said.
Avery Cates, the gweat and tewwible, I thought. Avery Cates, Destroyer of Worlds. And I started to laugh.
Appendix
Excerpts from Audio Diary of Tricia Amber Pollock
Joint Council File #668RF9
Reviewed by: C. Ruberto, Joint Council Undersecretary
Background: This is a transcript of audio files found on a handheld device recovered from a stairwell at 435 East Fifty-second Street in Manhattan during postepidemic sweep and demolition operations. The later entries were very muddy and required a great deal of lab cleanup in order to transcribe, and accuracy cannot be guaranteed. Most background noise and bodily functions are not recorded here, but in later entries notation of pauses, coughing fits, or other unintelligible sounds have been included in order to show that nothing has been censored by this department, due to direct request of Director Marin’s office regarding transcribed artifacts shared between our divisions.
It should be noted that no body was found near the handheld that contained the audio entries. Ms. Pollock did maintain an apartment in that location, but to date she has not been located.
‹BEGIN TRANSCRIPT›
never going drinking below Twenty-third Street again. I don’t know why Gerry likes slumming it down in those places, playing tough and drinking that paint. None of the animals around us is fooled, I am sure-I can see their looks as Gerry plays his little game. I am so tired of Gerry. I may have to give him the slip, try on someone new for a while. I felt frail and dried up when I finally got home and had to take four e-tabs to get to sleep, and this morning I feel even more dried up and need four a-tabs to even get out of bed. Thank goodness for tabs.
Wednesday, 3:33 a.m.: Only because the universe hates me, my shell is acting strangely. Quoting fucking poetry at random moments. Like ten minutes after I go to bed. I’ve reset and restored the damn thing a hundred times, and it behaves for a few days and then starts quoting again. Today I got a gem about an endless trail of sunsets. I put it into shutdown mode for my sanity-I can make my own Vid calls and order my own meals for a while, I suppose. Like Daddy used to say, I’m full of pluck.
Wednesday, 1:33 p.m.: Really, Gerry is simply disgusting. I think I might hate him.
Wednesday, 8:22 p.m.: Old pal Vincent asked me out to drinks tonight at Umano, the new place in the Forties. Supposedly they don’t use Droids or mechanicals at all, just people. Though what kind of people would be willing to serve food I’m sure I don’t know, and I don’t want to. Why are all the men I know so interested in thrill seeking and slumming?
Today I’m supposed to meet with Carol whatshername about the finances. I don’t feel up to it. I’ve been a little hot and achy all day long. There’s always more money. Hearing about it piled up here and there just makes me sleepy.
Then again, I can’t just sit in this apartment all night, watching the story Vids and making my own cocktails. I’m going to take a few x-tabs to perk up a bit and put on this divine new coat I acquired-bright red and cut to order, six hundred thousand yen. It’s almost time for another visit to the loathsome Dr. Killicks, but I think I look all right for at least a few more weeks, and the coat fits so well it won’t matter.
Thursday, 12:34 p.m.: Oh baby, there aren’t enough a-tabs in the world to wake me up today. Vincent-who knew he was such a lush? I feel terrible today, worse than yesterday. Maybe it’s too many tabs. They say there’s no harm in them, but I have been pushing it lately. I’m just so bored. When I’m not out I want to sleep, and when I wake up I want to get going! But it might not do a girl any harm to lay off for a while, eat healthy. Nothing but nutrition tablets and that nice imported water for yours truly, starting today. The moment I can get Vincent out of my bathroom, and have it cleaned. Or perhaps just bulldozed and completely replaced. On top of everything else, I’m coughing up a lung.