Chromed: Restore: Future Forfeit, #3

The Beginning of the End

L eave me alone, Carter.

But she wouldn’t. No matter how often he pleaded with her, she came in his dreams. And lately, his waking hours. Back in Mason’s world, he’d be strapped to a chair in Psych. There was nothing like that here, but for a hot second he wished there was.

Why did you let me die, Mason?

Firelight danced between the legs of people and tables alike. Woodsmoke, rich and comforting, swam on draughts from poorly caulked walls. Nine others shared the tavern, heads down, some with hoods still over their heads from the insistent rain outside, but all with their eyes down. Dirt and grime smudged their features to sameness. Hope hadn’t found its way here.

The storm hissed against walls of wood, teasing creaking boards with wet fingers. Mason glanced up from his meal. They’re not here yet, but it won’t be long. He returned to eating a bowl of fatty mutton and pale, straggly vegetation. It wasn’t anything like you’d get at a Michelin five-star, but it tasted better than it had a right to. Rich and comforting, with all the flavors nature intended. Mason picked up a spoon, noting the persistent tremble in his arm.

It’d been a long time between clinic visits.

Mason, I didn’t want to die. I only wanted to dance.

He clenched his fingers around the spoon, the shaking forced aside as the lattice held him steady. Warnings cascaded on his overlay. URGENT MAINTENANCE and NERVOUS SYSTEM DETACHMENT had no meaning. Not on Abinal, orbiting its dying sun. Mason gritted his teeth, clearing the errors. There was still work to do, for as long as he could.

The tavern door slammed open, rain swirling inside. The night gloom gave nothing away, but Mason’s optics were designed for dirty work in dark places. The overlay rolled with static for a moment before enhanced vision showed a hooded figure cloaked against the storm. All arrogant shoulders, as if the rain were according to their plan.

It might well be. Demons rode rain in the past. Mason didn’t know if there were others. Not finding them doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

He almost laughed. Paranoia like that said he was overdue for that visit to Psych.

Arrogant Shoulders strode into the tavern. Seekers scampered after, their white, sightless eyes combing the taproom. Mason huddled into his cloak, drawing his hood down. The rough cotton still held its own memory of the rain. Despite the cold and clammy material Mason chose a seat away from the fire. Far from the light and warmth, in a corner where dark huddled with him like a conspirator.

They’re coming for you. They’ll leave you dead.

"Not now, Carter." Mason watched Arrogant Shoulders reach the bar, old wood floorboards creaking. The nine people in the taproom lowered their eyes. They all knew what this was, if not who. Mason knew, too. He was counting on it.

Arrogant Shoulders beckoned the barkeep. A sweep of a hand drew their hood back, revealing a woman, face too used to looking down on people to be pretty. When she spoke, Mason’s overlay gobbled the words, translating on the fly. It’d been three months since arriving in Abinal, more than enough for speech to come naturally to the link. Where are they?

The barkeep, a fat man in a world of thin, starving people, cringed. No one came like you described, Master. No girls traveling with men. An ingratiating smile. We have hot food. Cold ale. Comfortable beds.

Arrogant Shoulders glared at the barkeep. I see no lie in your mind.

Of course not, Master.

Bring food and drink. Arrogant Shoulders turned from the barkeep, striding toward the fire. It was big and wide, pushing out enough heat to warm the room, promising an end to shivers brought on by too little food and too much cold weather. Laia said without the demon to hold the rain hostage, the world had cooled as storms roamed. She said there were no more tethered demons, but her eyes sought the floor when she spoke of it, unbelieving her own words.

Abinal’s dying, Mason. Don’t leave me here to rot. The Masters and their demon kept slaves, but they also kept the sun beating the right places on the planet like a hammer of starlight. Mason hadn’t heard any complaints. No one minded being free. And a little rain seemed a small price to pay.

As the Master reached the fire, people drifted away. No one wanted to be noticed. No one wanted to become a Seeker, with their minds torn away. No one except Mason in his corner of gloom, half-eaten meal in front of him, murder in his heart. The Master’s Seekers followed, but Mason knew it wasn’t because the woman wanted her slaves warmed. It was to keep her safe, guards against any who wanted her dead.

He couldn’t help but smile. That was the sign of a job well done. Mason and Laia left a trail of dead slavers across Abinal. There’d been thousands at first. Now there were hundreds. Mason’s hand shook again, the spoon rattling against the table. He stared at it. Hundreds, and you’re breaking down.

The Master’s eyes went to Mason’s spoon, then rose to his face. He wondered what she saw. It’s time to get this show on the road. Mason put the spoon beside his half-eaten meal, sliding from the crude bench. He swept the cloak back, letting the firelight play on his face. It’d been a long three months. Wrinkles turned into full-blown creases lined his face. A beard too rough for corporate boardrooms kept the cold from his jaw. Mason took a step toward the Master. Her eyes widened, and she stepped back. You!

Me, agreed Mason. How you want it? In the head? Chest? It’s faster in the head. Chest wounds can leave you bleeding for a while. He rolled his shoulders, then raised his hand, the shaking evident in his arm. My aim’s not what it once was.

You’re weak, she snarled.

Not really. Mason shook his head. You must be part of the rank-and-file of Asshole HQ, right?

What? The Master blinked. The people in the taproom, already heading for the door, turned their trickle to a stampede. The rain would be preferable company to a madman and a Master.

I guess you’re running out of dudes. Dudes didn’t translate well. You’re wondering where she is.

Who? Another blink.

"Come on. You walked in here, talking to Captain Oval, Mason pointed at the barkeep, trying his level best to hide his bulk behind a counter unsuited to the task, about a girl and a man. You’ve found the man. About now, you’re wondering where she is. He scratched his beard. You’re looking in my mind, trying to find her."

The Master’s eyes grew distant. But you don’t know where she is.

Not a clue. Mason gave a grin full of feral firelight. "We needed a plan. Part of the plan is me keeping a promise."

You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep. She threw back her cloak, water dripping to the floor.

Pretty sure I can keep this one. A fourteen-year-old kid isn’t for you. Mason eyed a Seeker as it sidled to his right.

Mason, no one’s got your back. Not like me. You’re alone.

The Master offered a slim smile in answer to Mason’s. Who is Carter?

It’s complicated. Mason’s overlay tried to find the right words before giving up. How about you ask her in a minute?

What happens in a minute? Confusion chased uncertainty across her face. That’s right. This isn’t part of the usual script.

You stop breathing. Mason turned to the Seeker on his right. He wore rags that might have been colorful before the grime set in. The Master held this slave for a long time. Mason let overtime slip around him, clean and cool. The firelight lost its reds and oranges as color leeched from the world. The Master’s smile froze as time slowed. Mason lunged at the Seeker.

Mason, you can’t kill them.

He slammed his fist into the Seeker’s head. The tremble in his arm became a savage jerk, fouling his aim. He hit the Seeker lower than intended, knocking teeth loose. Mason didn’t slow, hefting a chair, feeling the weight of the wood through overtime’s embrace. He turned, tossing it at the barkeep, the man halfway through raising a crossbow from below the bar. The chair began its slow, lazy sail through the air.

Mason continued his spin, halting as he faced the Master. He jumped for her, raising his arm. As Mason landed, he brought a hammerfist strike down on her skull. Bone cracked, and she slumped to the floor, twitching.

Time coughed, then resumed its normal pace through the universe. The chair hit the barkeep, knocking the man out as the crossbow fired, its bolt thunking into the fireplace lintel.

A Seeker hit Mason in the head with a bench, the wood splintering. Mason staggered. Hold the phone. The Master’s down. These should be free. What’s going on?

He reached for the overtime again, but his overlay errored out, COGNITIVE TIME MISMATCH showing in the lower right of his vision. Mason had no idea what that meant, but he’d fought people in the real before. The Seeker came at him with another swing of the bench. Mason caught it, wood creaking.

Mason, this is where it ends. We’ll be together soon.

Fuck that noise. Mason ducked low, rising into an uppercut, fist connecting with the Seeker’s jaw. They flew back, crashing on a table. Another to his left swung a glowing fire iron. Mason caught the yellow-bright tip, lattice snarling as synthskin hissed. Mason yanked the iron from the Seeker, tossing it into a wall. It chunked in place, quivering. He kicked the Seeker in the gut, and as the air gusted from it, he hit it across the jaw. It went down in a pile of boneless limbs.

Two to go. Both Seekers tackled him. He caught the rankness of their flesh, the unwashed humanness of them. People here smell worse but the world smells better. Is this how we work? Do we wash our filth into everything we touch? It was a maudlin thought. He shoved it aside as the Seekers rammed him against a wall, timber cracking. Mason grabbed a Seeker’s arm, dislocating it with a wrench. Slipping free he spun, turning the movement into a kick. The heel of his boot collected a Seeker’s skull, dropping it.

One more. The Seeker leered, drool coming from its mouth. It raked curled fingers, aiming for Mason’s face. He batted them aside, then sucker-punched it. A clunk of head on wood as it slumped atop a floor tacky with old ale. Mason breathed, feeling good ol’ fashioned adrenaline coursing through the meat parts of him. His arm trembled, and he clutched it with his other. Laia couldn’t see him like this.

She’d worry.

A slow clap made him turn. Another Master stood at the door, this one a man. It was like they all came from the same factory, assholes from boots to haircut. Piercing blue eyes. Slight sneer. Older than his partner. You are as fearsome as they say.

You’re as stupid as they say. Mason pulled the fire iron from the wall, giving it a swing. I wondered how you were playing it. Clever, sending in a decoy.

The Master spread his hands. It doesn’t need to be this way.

Mason laughed. This is where you offer a partnership. Join forces. You’re really all misunderstood. Working for the people, not against them.

Yes.

You need a better marketing team. Mason eyed the distance. The iron trembled in his hand. Ten meters, an easy throw for well-tuned bionics. But with Mason’s augments misfiring… Hmm. I come from a place where we package promises in lies that feel like truth.

The Master cocked his head. It’s not so different here. We have a different way of making you believe.

Mason sighed. How you want it? Head or chest?

Don’t you wonder where Laia is? The Master stepped inside, the rain chasing his heels.

Not really, admitted Mason. She’ll be along.

What if we’d found her? The Master’s face gave little away.

Then my blood would boil out my eye sockets while you made her kill me. Mason walked toward the Master. He needed to finish this before they made more Seekers. It was hard to be sure you wouldn’t kill your opponents. Mason ran a finger along his ribs where he wore a scar from a spear. He’d earned it being too careful, or not careful enough. Let’s do this.

The iron pulled in Mason’s hand, an invisible force sweeping it toward his face. The lattice reacted, bringing his other hand up. Metal rang as the iron hit Mason’s substructure, his arm trembling with the effort. Behind the Master, a young man entered. He looked lost, like they all did. Face full of pain, empty of hope. A metal collar lay like a circle of hate around his neck. He looked between the Master and Mason.

Mason, they’ve brought another like Laia and Zacharies. They’ll make children kill you.

Mason snarled, jumping for the Master. A ten-meter jump? No problem. A ten-meter jump with a high-powered telekinetic in the room? Impossible.

The boy tossed Mason back. He lost his grip on the fire iron as he flew through the air. Mason slammed into the hearth. Flames licked around him, ash and soot filling his eyes. A normal person might cough. Mason smiled. He was used to the cacophony of hell. Welcomed it as his home. Mason rose, smoke coming with him like an old friend. The fire iron shot through the air toward his chest. He caught it. Best hold onto that.

You are right. You have no friends. The Master turned to the young man. I think you are not trying.

Master, please— The young man screamed, falling to his knees. The scream choked short, the kid clawing at his eyes, blood coating his fingers.

Mason threw the iron. The lattice held his arm steady, only the faintest tremor fouling the throw. The iron flew, but rather than hitting the Master in the head, it lodged in the man’s shoulder. The Master roared his pain, the kid screaming in kind. The wooden floor ripped apart, wood planks rising as the young man used his gift. Ten spears of wood, twenty, fifty, a hundred. They rose in the air, arrows pointed at Mason.

Laia dropped from the rafters, landing on the balls of her feet. A cloaked billowed about her as she fell, dark hair a whirl. She landed between the Master and Mason. Laia screamed defiance at the Master, throwing her arms wide. Rage coiled her small frame, teeth bared and feral. The Master lunged for her, then jerked as a wet red cloud blew from his back. Without blood in his body he staggered, then collapsed.

The spears of wood fell to the ground. The young man slumped. Unconsciousness was a blessing. The damage he’d been forced to inflict on himself would cause agony.

Mason clamped his steady hand over the shaking one. He hurried to Laia. Are you hurt?

Her eyes found his, dark eyes holding concern. You’re growing careless.

Says the girl who dropped in front of a mind-controlling evil overlord.

Says the girl who saved your life. Laia looked away. Without you, we’re lost.

Without you, I’m dead. Mason hid behind a smile. Where next?

North. She refused to meet his eyes. She was wrong.

Who?

The female Master. You’ve got friends, said Laia. Every soul you’ve saved—

"We’ve saved."

And there’s me.

Mason sighed. Laia had grown hard in the three months on Abinal. Harder than she’d been under the yoke of the Masters. Under your care, Mason, she’s become a killer. Mason didn’t think he’d said anything, but Laia turned to him, eyes narrowed. You speak to the dead, and yet you say you’re not an angel.

Carter’s… Mason trailed off, the link failing to find the words in Abinal’s language. Maybe it’s not the link.

You talk to her in your sleep. Laia put a hand on his arm. You twitch and shake. Don’t try to hide it from me. How long?

Years.

"How long really?"

Mason walked to the bar, checking over the side. The barkeep still slumped on the floor, blood trickling from his nose. Mason slid over the top, crouching low. He found what passed for whisky on this planet. It didn’t taste much like anything except battery acid, but it served a purpose. Mason waved the bottle, and at Laia’s nod, he poured two cups. No glasses in a shitty dive like this. Anyplace with stables out the back is like as not to be full of hicks. Mason watched Laia over his cup, worrying about how much to tell her. She waited him out. Three months on the road, you got to know a person. Laia knew him better than almost anyone.

Anyone except me.

Mason pushed Carter away. A couple weeks. A month.

And then? Laia measured him in the firelight.

"I break down. My arms and legs aren’t real, Laia. There’s not a lot of meat left."

She gave a tight nod. Then we’ll need to pick up the pace. Laia looked aside for a moment, switching to English. Come on, cowboy.

They helped themselves to supplies, leaving tarnished coins on the counter for when the barkeep awoke. Enough for food, drink, and the horses they stole. They rode north, looking for trouble. It wouldn’t be long until they found it.

Chapter One

Sadie checked her sidearm. It was a short Metatech pistol Mike called a relic, but it had the advantage of not needing link architecture. Point, pull the trigger, then plan for the funeral.

She wasn’t in the habit of using a sidearm in her club, but two weeks back Heimo Bonafont tried to murder her with a loop of cable. He’d complemented Sadie on her black lipstick, something she should have taken as a warning sign. Moment of weakness, Sadie. When she’d nodded, looking away, he’d slammed her against a wall, fingers tangled in her black hair, nails scraping her undercut. Sadie, no stranger to the excitement of fans-turned-stalker, beat him senseless. Wouldn’t have needed to do that if he was afraid in the first place. Hence the sidearm. Sadie holstered the pistol, pulled out a pack of Treasurers, and lit one with a long finger of flame. She blew smoke toward the ceiling fans, turning their lazy slow circles above an empty bar.

Afterlife hadn’t been pumping in months. Not since she’d taken ownership, changing its name from The Hole. The name didn’t have anything to do with it: people didn’t need the music to feel alive anymore. The Human Energetics talking head made it sound so easy. Get your link upgraded. Lose your reliance on drugs, caffeine, hell, even sleep. People on his brand of bullshit seemed to be rising in the ranks, too. It felt like a cult, but without meetings or membership dues.

She sighed, then squatted beside the bar. They might not need music, but you do. The old Bang and Olufsen sound system she’d rescued from Mason’s apartment nestled between glassware. Sadie scrubbed through the tracks on file, selecting something with a low, insistent beat. It was as quietly urgent as she felt. Neither Sadie nor the track had words for the feelings inside them.

You’ve got words. You want to kiss him again.

Fair enough, too. What kind of man kisses you before walking through a devil gate to another world?

Mike gave her a nod as she surfaced from behind the bar, leaning on his mop. It wasn’t really a mop, any more than he was a janitor. Nobody in a service industry job had clinic-perfect Japanese good looks like his. Since Metatech downsized, they’d been playing it loose and easy at Afterlife. Sadie had the cash. She had the fucking purpose. What she didn’t have was enough muscle to stop assholes coming in here, hence Mike standing guard.

Negative thinking leads to a negative day. Mike polished off a smile, just for her.

She took it. "It is a negative day. Sadie pointed her cigarette toward the back of the club, past the empty stage and the vacant tables. There’s a man back there trying his level best to screw us over."

Bonafont’s a dick.

Bonafont’s the man with all the answers. Sadie drew on her cigarette, trying to find comfort hidden in the tobacco. You seem happy enough for a man without a job.

I’ve got a job.

Metatech fired your ass.

Metatech’s going through a difficult time, admitted Mike. Besides, it’s a leave of absence. I’m still in the system. In a couple weeks, they’ll have their shit together. My stock’s taken a waterboarding.

No one wants weapons when they’ve got happiness on tap, that it?

"I’m not sure that’s the way to put it. People are rioting. Mike jabbed a hand at the door, outside which lay the rest of Seattle, and by proxy, the world. Happy people don’t riot."

Sadie nodded, slouching against a rack of liquor. Smith was supposed to come today.

Smith’s not his real name.

She considered Mike over her cigarette, the ember glowing a handspan from her face. Do you know something?

I know what you know. People who HumanE reject—

HumanE?

Human Energetics.

Sadie snorted. They have excellent PR.

Mike nodded. Capital team of assholes, sure. Anyway, people who reject their link upgrades seem more inclined to take to the streets.

The door slammed open, Zacharies striding through, the noise of the city nipping at his heels. The kid was all youthful ranginess, dark eyes looking at everything at once. He carried something red and metallic in a hand. Zacharies shut Afterlife away from the world, then made a straight line for her. Sadie, this is the answer. He tossed the tiny metal and crystal sliver to the bar top. It clattered, monofilament wires trailing red droplets on the dark wood.

Sadie tried to step back, but a liquor rack held her firm. Is that what I think it is?

Mike joined them, mop and all. "Kid, did you rip out someone’s link architecture? And then take this to Sadie rather than me?"

Yes, Mike. Zacharies looked confused as he glanced between them. She’s in charge.

Mike said something that sounded like sonofabitch as he took his mop away. Sadie peered at the bloody uplink. Where did you get this?

From a man trying to kill me. The kid shrugged. "The link made him do it. I can see it."

I can see you need a drink. Help yourself, said Sadie. I’m off to meet Doctor Frankenstein.

Do you need any help? She could see the need in his eyes which, at his age, could turn to a powerful level of violence.

Sadie flicked ash to the floor. No. I’ve got this one. She nodded to Mike. Floor needs cleaning.

Clean it yourself.

You’re the man with the mop. Sadie sauntered from behind the bar. She checked her sidearm was at her side, hand on the butt of the pistol, then headed to the rear of Afterlife. To where the monster lived.

The engine room of Afterlife used to be for storage. Racks that held the heady weight of beer casks now housed servers, thousands of lights blinking in the gloom. Smoke swirled through the air, sluggish despite the air conditioning. Sadie closed the door behind her, the security seal hissing shut.

The fat black man glared hate at her.

Sadie ignored him for a moment, turning to the woman seated on a couch. The couch was old and comfortable like most of the things at Afterlife. The woman looked too young for the rifle she carried. How you doing, Sam?

I hate babysitting. Sam’s clinic-bought features made boredom look fashionable.

I hear you. Sadie straightened her shoulders. Heimo, how’s progress?

You’ll die for this. Heimo sighed, shoulders slumped in defeat despite his words. His sweat-stained shirt looked like he’d found it dumpster-diving, a far cry from the top-shelf attire he was used to. You’ve heard the expression, ‘have a tiger by the tail?’

Sadie gave Heimo a once-over. He was still fat, but months inside working under duress leaned him down a kilo or two. You’re no tiger.

"Apsel is a dragon. Heimo tried on a leer, couldn’t get it to stick, so let it drop. They’re coming for me."

They’re in a death-spiral. Sam hid a little glee in the words. She was Metatech right to the core, and worked as Mike’s handler before they’d taken their leave. Their stock is being used to light fire barrels in the slums. They’re one step away from Reed’s crumble after the incident in Amsterdam.

Heimo shook his head. They’ve destroyed a city before. He meant Richland, lost and forgotten.

Motherfuckers, agreed Sadie. "I’m not here to talk about whether I’m pissing people off. I always piss people off. It’s my superpower. I’m here, Heimo, to find out whether we need to have another discussion about your performance."

He blanched. No.

Then it’s done?

"It’s almost done. At the expression on Sadie’s face, something she felt was close to white-lipped rage, Heimo held up his hands. I have the quantum frame ready. Its code—"

Her code.

Her code is installed. The baseline cortex fabric took the code.

The what the what?

He rolled his eyes. You didn’t read the memo?

Sadie glanced at Sam. Is he speaking English?

He said Carter’s code is fine, and the computer is working. Sam pointed her rifle at the floor, looking down the scope. She sounded distracted, like this wasn’t worth all her cycles to care about. To be honest I’m waiting for the punchline.

Sadie looked around the room of servers. "What’s