CONSIDER US EVEN A Short Story by Jarrett Rush SMASHWORDS EDITION * * * * * PUBLISHED BY: Jarrett Rush on Smashwords Consider Us Even A Short Story Copyright © 2010 by Jarrett Rush Smashwords Edition License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please download an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not download it, or it was not downloaded for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and download your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work. * * * * * FOREWORD Hi, everyone. Just a few quick words to say thanks for downloading this story. I hope you enjoy it and enjoy your time spent in this universe I’ve created. These won’t be the only stories to come from New Eden. I have plans. Big plans. If you do like what you’ve read I’d love for you to follow my blog, jarrettwrites.blogspot.com. Stop by. Say hi. Let me know you were there. If you don’t get enough of me there, I’m also on Twitter at @JarrettRush. And if you want to shower me with praise and kind words, you can email me at jarrettrush@yahoo.com. Email me even if your words aren’t so kind. Any feedback is useful. The second half of this pair of stories is an excerpt from a much longer piece that's available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, and most other online bookstores. If you enjoy that taste of Chasing Filthy Lucre, then grab a copy of the full version. * * * * * CONSIDER US EVEN Marquez smashed the bottle against the edge of the bar. Bits of brown glass clattered to the floor and he swiped what was left in his hand at Solis’ face. Solis shoved Marquez’s hand away and he dropped the bottle. A pair of security bots spun in circles by their feet, the little red lights on their domed heads flashing. Solis kicked the bot nearest him and the machine slid across the floor, smashing in to the leg of a chair. Marquez was distracted by the commotion and Solis put a fist hard into his opponent’s stomach. Marquez doubled over and Solis brought a knee into the shorter man’s nose. He dropped to the ground and the other security bot passed by his ear. Marquez pushed it aside. He brought himself slowly to a knee then sprung at Solis, burying his shoulder into the older man’s soft middle. The pair crashed into three barstools as they fell to the ground. Marquez straddled the old man, his hair falling in his eyes in a sweaty mess. Solis grabbed a handful of Marquez’s dark mane and pushed him back into an upright position. He swung his left arm and crushed Marquez’s cheek. His head snapped to the side and smacked the old wooden bar next to which the two men were laying. Solis pushed Marquez off of him and the younger man lay on the ground in a wet heap, one of the security bots by his head and the other near his feet. In computerized voices they told him to stay where he was, that he was being detained. Solis reached into Marquez’s back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took the three American twenty dollar bills that were inside. “Now, we’re even,” Solis said as he pocketed the bills and headed for the door, a security bot tailing close behind telling him to not move any farther. Marquez rolled to his stomach and tried to say something, but no words came. Fight and all, Solis wasn’t leaving The Dudley in much worse shape than he’d found it. Dive bars lined the streets off the south bay and all the places were the same. Wooden floors. A beaten up bar against one wall. Tables across the other. A questionable crowd inside. Solis passed three more establishments just like The Dudley before reaching the corner. Overstuffed ships lined the other side of the street and they bobbed up and down on the rough water. The wind whipped in from the bay and Solis shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets to fight the chill. He wrapped a fist around his new found cash and headed for the hothouse a few blocks down. He’d only have to spend one of his new twenties on a hit that would last him all night. A more than fair trade. Security bots larger than the ones in the bar were patrolling the street and Solis told himself to stand up straighter. Slouch and you’re gonna look suspicious to these things, you idiot. One bot had a woman against a wall and she was fumbling through her purse for her ID card. The bot was counting down from ten and had already reached four. If she didn’t find the card by the time the bot hit zero she would be detained. Solis thought a good thought for the woman then felt in his back pocket for his own ID card. It was there. The address he’d written on his hand a few hours earlier had smudged thanks to The Dudley and the sweat and the beer. He thought he remembered where he was headed, but, honestly, finding the hot house wouldn’t be hard. There would be a crowd, especially on a weekend. Plus, he’d hear it. If it was anything like what was described to him earlier, the place was wired to the gills and the air around it would crackle with data. Solis hated using hot houses. It didn’t matter if they were set up in an old apartment building, a broken down warehouse, or an abandoned office tower, he didn’t trust them. Someone looking to make quick cash would come in, run miles of wire through the walls, hook it all up to a server that was pumping out unfiltered data then charge each addict twenty dollars to plug in, to get their fix. Once they drained an area’s addicts dry or the authorities got word of what was going on they’d pull out the wires and be on to another building and another population of junkies. Solis wished he didn’t have to use hot houses, but his feed at home wasn’t cutting it anymore. He needed the volume of data you got at a hot house to feel the flush of digital that had hooked him so many years ago. “Howdy, partner,” a man said as he picked up his pace to catch up to Solis. “Long time no see.” It was Daryl and he was wearing a cowboy hat with his bangs flaring out from under the brim. His boots were shiny and the hard heels made it impossible for him to sneak up on anyone. “Been busy,” Solis said, keeping his eyes forward. “I would guess so,” Daryl said. He put a hand on Solis’ shoulder but Solis never looked to the side. “I don’t suppose you were busy making money, were you? Because then you could pay me what you owe me. I don’t like having people owing me money, Solis.” It was just a hundred bucks borrowed from Daryl a few weeks ago to get him through, but in the end blown on magazines and hot houses. Solis had promised to have it paid back by this weekend. “No, not working unfortunately,” Solis said. Daryl squeezed Solis shoulder and the older gentleman dipped his arm. The hot house was close. He could hear the crowd and feel the data pulsing through the neighborhood. “I’m getting impatient,” Daryl said, turning Solis to look him in the eye. “I can give you until the morning, but I want my cash.” Solis nodded and rubbed his port. It was in his right arm, just above his elbow. It was a third generation military-issue unit that he’d paid to have cracked a few months after discharge. Once the filter was removed he could experiment with the data overload that so many of his army buddies had told him about. The warm sensation you got. The foggy head and the ability to forget everything you’d seen during your time serving. It had been twenty years now and Solis had never expected to be one of these people who was hooked, who was addicted. He never expected he’d be the kind of guy to beat up a friend to get his hands on enough cash for a fix. Dozens of people milled about outside the converted warehouse. Men and women, some begging for money. “Just a few bucks, that’s all I need. Just a little scratch that I can give to the man inside. You can spare a couple of dollars, can’t you?” Just through a raised bay door, a man in a light jacket and tan trousers sat in a folding chair, a cigar box on his lap. He took Solis’ twenty dollars and pointed him toward a larger room up a ramp. There, coming from the ceiling was a bundle of wires at least one hundred thick. Once the bundle hit the floor the wires spread out into individual feeds. Solis searched the wires for one that would fit his port. Once he found it he cleared a place in the corner between two young men who looked like they’d been there for a while. One had his eyes closed and a puddle of drool on his chest. The other was slumped against the cinder block wall. He was staring into the far off at nothing and Solis gave him a push to make a little room for himself. He gave the end of the wire a quick lick and felt the buzz on his tongue. He pushed the feed into his arm and the rush was immediate. Heat went up his arm and into his neck then down his back almost instantaneously. His body relaxed and he slid a bit down the wall, his legs pushing out farther into the room. He felt his head dip and his chin touch his chest. He was on the wire. * * * * * Solis woke with a shake to his arm. It was the man from the door who’d taken his money the night before. “Time to go,” he said. “You’ve got five minutes.” Solis dragged his tongue across his dry lips and tried to swallow. He pushed himself up with his left arm and stumbled to a knee. His stomach hurt and his right arm felt like a thousand ants were crawling under his skin. He was one of the last customers left. A pair of men were pulling wires from the ceiling and winding them on wooden spools. Solis stepped over one customer who looked near dead and bumped into a woman who was struggling to find the door. The sun stung his eyes as he stepped outside the warehouse. He headed back toward the south bay and felt in his pocket for the cash remaining from the night before. He thought about breakfast. Eggs over easy. Rye toast with no butter. Orange juice. Workers were out next to the ships. Scrubbing the hulls. Rearranging cargo on the decks. Getting these hulking beasts ready for another run out to sea. The action around him helped to wake him up. His arm still tingled. He tried to shake some life into it but knew that it would be hours before he could use it again. A bell rang when Solis opened the door to Marly’s. He found a seat at the counter and a waitress placed a napkin and glass of water in front of him. She smiled and rubbed his hand. He smiled back and placed his order, shaking his right arm after she had turned away. After a couple minutes of sitting with his eyes closed, Solis heard the waitress slide his plate in front of him. Eggs over easy and dry rye toast. He picked up his fork and attacked his breakfast. Yolks broke and ran across the plate. He sopped them up with the toast and was lost in his food when he heard the sound of hard heels hitting the Linoleum floor. Daryl took a seat on the stool next to him and tapped the counter to make sure he had Solis’ full attention. “Howdy, bubba. I need my money now.” Solis finished chewing then explained that he didn’t have anything extra. “Like I said, can’t find work.” Daryl spun toward the front of Marly’s and pointed through the plate glass window at the ships. “All of those boats out there and you can’t find a job? Not one of those captains needs an extra set of hands.” Solis put his fork down and shook his head. Daryl smacked him on the back and apologized. Said that he hated to have to do this so early in the morning, but he needed Solis to stand. “Hate to do what?” Solis asked as he got up from his stool. Daryl quickly pulled his arm back then put a fist hard into Solis’ stomach. He doubled over at the middle and spit eggs onto the floor, some falling onto Daryl’s boots. Solis came back up with an uppercut that landed square on Daryl’s jaw, sending his hat flying. Daryl stumbled backwards and Solis put his foot into Daryl’s gut. He crashed into a table as he fell to the ground. A salt shaker broke into a dozen pieces and its contents scattered as it hit the floor. Solis kicked Daryl hard in the ribs and he let out a moan. Solis reached into his pocket and grabbed the two twenty American dollar bills he had left and dropped them on Daryl’s chest. “Consider us even.” The bell rang again when Solis opened the door to leave Marly’s. The sirens of security bots were getting closer. * * * * * CHASING FILTHY LUCRE An Excerpt by Jarrett Rush SMASHWORDS EDITION * * * * * PUBLISHED BY: Jarrett Rush on Smashwords Chasing Filthy Lucre An Excerpt Copyright © 2010 by Jarrett Rush * * * * * I fought. Not by choice, but necessity. The concrete in the basement at Raul’s was damp, that wasn’t unusual. Neither was the smell of mildew. A crowd of no more than fifty stood in a circle around both of us. It was a slow night, and Berger and I had been at it for a few minutes. I bounced on the balls of my feet, my hands up near my face. Berger swung and I jumped backward. He missed by inches. I jabbed my left and bloodied his nose. He shook his head and blinked twice. I followed with a right that Berger blocked. He buried a fist into my stomach. I made an odd coughing and grunting sound. Sweat stuck my long-sleeved t-shirt to my chest. The soles of my black boots squeaked as I danced around the floor. The crowd was rowdy and the circle began to close. Berger and I moved apart to force the men to spread back out. We came back together after a moment and I moved in close and got him into a hold, wrapping my hands around the back of his neck and pulled him to me. “Nice shot,” I whispered into his ear. “Knocked the wind out of me.” “Couldn’t wait a couple of minutes before drawing blood?” he whispered back. “Small crowd tonight. Wanted to get them riled up.” Berger pushed me away. “Then try to bloody me again,” he shouted and the crowd whooped and hollered. Berger came toward me, his hands up near his face. He shook his left hand, just enough for me to notice, then swung. I ducked. An uppercut caught Berger on the chin. A right cross sent him stumbling back. The crowd pushed him into the middle of the circle. He wobbled toward me then fell against my chest. “Nice job, champ.” The crowd was shouting and I could barely hear him. “I don’t think I can make it much longer. Think they’d be happy to see me fall yet?” I raised my right arm and waved my hand in a circle. The crowd got louder and I said to Berger, “Yeah. We’re good.” I pushed him off of me and he stumbled to the middle. He struggled to stand and I hit him with a flurry of punches. A right. A left. Another right. A hard left and Berger’s head snapped back. He fell to the ground and the crowd shouted. A pair of men fought through the mob and grabbed Berger under the arms and dragged him into a back room. I followed, accepting congratulations. Once the door shut behind us one of the men waved smelling salts under Berger’s nose. He shook his head and his eyes blinked open. Raul stood up from the desk in the corner. He approached with two stacks of cash. Berger’s was bigger than mine since he took the fall. “Sorry it can’t be more, boys,” he said. “It’s alright.” I spoke for the both of us. “It pays the bills.” That’s why I did this, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I sat with Berger for a few minutes after Raul left. He’d given me the keys and asked me to lock up. We were in the basement below his store, a shop that sold a little of everything but specialized in nothing. “Sorry that one was so rough,” I said to Berger as he pushed himself off of his back and onto his elbows. “I think I got carried away.” Berger smiled and told me not to worry about it. “I’ve taken worse beatings,” he said. “At least I’m getting paid for it now.” I agreed. At least we we’re getting paid for it. Berger offered to buy me a late dinner and we left. At the restaurant, he barely fit into the booth, his gut fighting to get between him and the table. He was embarrassed so I tried to say something to break the tension. “Before you were a fighter, what’d you do?” I didn’t know Berger. We’d fought in Raul’s league a few times, but he was new. Still working his way up. All I really knew is that he could take a beating. That night was the third time I’d laid him out like that. “Soldier,” he said. “A lousy one, but I was a soldier.” He studied the menu then laid it to his side. “When the government fell and they let us all go I started working the docks over at south bay. Did that for a while and hated it. Started delivering goods for a guy I met working there and that’s how I met Raul.” “You should talk to him about winning. You’re good. Your body blow really rocked me earlier. You don’t need to be his butterball forever.” Berger nodded and thanked me for the kind words. “So, what do you do when you aren’t in the basement?” “Whatever I can to make ends meet,” I said. Our food arrived – a club sandwich for Berger and a ham sandwich for me. They were served on thin sliced white bread and mismatched plates that were chipped along the edges and looked like they could use a good scrub. But they were what you’d expect from a place like that. The chairs and tables didn’t match either and the paint on the sign in the window had dripped to the wooden frame. Berger took a bite of his sandwich then mumbled with a full mouth, “And what did you do before you got started fighting?” “I was a cop. And before that, a soldier.” I looked for the woman who took our order and asked her to bring us two beers. “These are on me,” I told Berger. He nodded his thanks then asked more questions. “That where you learned to fight? The military?” “That’s where they taught me how to throw a proper punch. Nobody teaches you how to fight.” The redhead sat two plain brown bottles on the table. They were a home brew and I took a long drink. It was bitter and I shut my eyes tight as I swallowed, fighting to get it down. “So, a soldier, huh?” I said to Berger and reached down to my boot. I pulled a pistol that I’d holstered to my ankle before we left Raul’s and put it on the table. “I guess you know how to use one of these.” Berger smiled and said, “Yes, I’ve used a gun before.” “How long ago did you shoot?” “Basic training.” He put what was left of his sandwich in his mouth and washed it down with a swallow of the home brew. “I worked the kitchen, and let me tell you, I make better sandwiches than these things. Better beer, too.” He slid his empty plate to the middle of the table and pulled his napkin from his lap. I chuckled and pushed the pistol across the table. “Shoot it a couple of times to get the feel for it again. I think I have a chance for you to make a little cash if you aren’t afraid to pull that trigger.” “Depends on how much cash we’re talking about.” “Help me and it could be plenty,” I said. You won’t get to quit fighting at Raul’s, but you’ll do OK.” “Help you do what?” Berger picked the gun up off the table and pointed it at the ground. He eyed the sight and pretended to shoot something only he could see. “I do a little freelance security work for a guy running data. He keeps it quiet, but I could use an extra hand.” Berger pointed the gun toward the back of the restaurant and held it sideways like some kind of gangster from the movies. I reached over and twisted his hand so he was aiming it upright. “Not so fancy cowboy. That’s not how they teach you in basic.” “Is it hard?” Berger asked. “This job?” “Nah, just go along with the clients. Make sure they get where they need to go. Pretty simple stuff.” Berger sat the gun back on the table and asked “You ever had to shoot anyone?” I shook my head no, but told him I was ready to if needed. “But that’s just the cop in me. You agree to help out I’ll be the first shot. You’re just there for back up.” * * * * * Lift and pull. That was the trick to getting the lock at Raul’s to release. You lifted the door by the handle and pulled it toward you. Then you slipped the key in the lock and turned it to the right. It’d release with a loud snap. I’d learned the trick late at night when I’d come back with the key he’d left with me and get food to eat for the next day. I was there again after Berger and I ate dinner. The sandwich did nothing to fill the hole in my gut and the beer had left me wanting to taste the real stuff. Lift. Pull. Turn. Snap. I carried a package of bologna under one arm and a loaf of bread in one hand. In the other I had a case of beer. All of it was RomaCorp brand. Best stuff money could buy, even if I had no intention of paying full price. I left a wadded five dollar bill on Raul’s cracked countertop near his cash register, locked the door as I left, and headed for home. My apartment was on the fifth floor of a building a few blocks away from the docks. “New Eden Suites” was written in bright green neon letters over the double doors that led into the lobby. It wasn’t always called that, not when I first moved in more than ten years earlier. But once the government fell and the group of rebels took over everything and declared that we all now lived in New Eden, the owners of my building got caught up in the excitement and renamed the place. I didn’t care, though. My stuff was here and the rent didn’t change. There is an older gentleman who can’t sleep. At least he told me that’s why I always saw him when I came in at night. A nice guy. Never said more than a few words to me. “Good morning, Mr. Rexall,” he said when I’d come in late. “Please,” I’d say to him, “call me Weber.” “Sure thing, Mr. Rexall.” That was it. Our entire exchange every night. It always made me smile. He was there when I got home carrying my haul from Raul’s. I smiled as I climbed the stairs to my place. In the past I would have plugged in as soon as I was inside my apartment. There was a wire straight from the wall, added as a convenience years before I moved in. Easy data access for anyone with a terminal. I’d had it converted to my own personal hot jack. Plug in. Heat up. Pass out. It started as tingle near the port where the wire connected to the arm. Like something crawling under your skin. It quickly turned to a burn that rushed across the entire body, and for a few minutes it was uncomfortable. You wanted to pull off your skin. But if you could wait -- if you could push through the hurt -- your body would settle into the rush of data that was assaulting every last nerve, and your body calmed. You couldn’t hear anything. You couldn’t think anything. You just were. And for your time on the wire you didn’t have to deal with life now, or remember life in the past. All of those things you’d seen or done were gone. They weren’t affecting you anymore. That was the appeal. That’s why so many soldiers were the first to abuse the technology. The wire that everyone referred to is the one from your port to your brain, not the one from the source to your port, although that’s what most people thought. It’s an understandable confusion. It was a procedure developed by a team of Dutch doctors and scientists. Exactly how it worked I couldn’t tell you, but it’s made up of three parts. There’s the port. It’s typically inserted into the arm, but really it could go anywhere. The older a person was the more discrete their port. The younger, the more visible. Many kids were opting for a port in the neck. The theory was that the shorter the distance from the port to the brain, the more intense the sensation. How much more intense the sensation needed to be, I wasn’t sure. The second element was the wire itself. It’s a fine piece of microfilament that ran from the port to the third element, the net. A net, also made of microfilament, was woven into the different parts of the head. The digital came into the port, ran along the wire, and was dumped into the brain. The original applications were military. Soldiers were given their mission details with the port. They’d plug in at night and wake the next morning with their orders and all pertinent background information. The original ports came with a governor that limited the flow of data to the brain. Those were cracked soon after ports were approved for commercial use. Mine was a military unit, first generation. Got it cracked in a small computer shop two blocks from base as soon as I was discharged. Done by a hack in a back room. Me laying on a table and him plugging a beaten up laptop into my port. He punched some keys and I laid there and felt the flush of digital for the first time. It started with a tingle that ran up my arm and into my shoulder. It crossed over to my neck and then into my head. It became an intense heat that left me dizzy and light headed. From my head, it ran down my chest, past my waist, and into my toes. For the first time I felt my head tip back and my mouth drop open. I could no longer think. Nothing was in my head. All the things I had seen and done had been replaced by the heat of the data. After thirty minutes and twenty bucks I was on the wire. * * * * * Instead of plugging in as soon as the door shut, my nightly routine now started with a sandwich of bologna on white bread with a thin spread of mayonnaise. It was served on a paper plate and eaten in my recliner. A little TV while I ate and a moment to check messages using the keyboard I kept on the side table. After that is when I plugged in, but only for ten minutes. Just enough time to get warm and feel the flush of digital come over me. At least I intended it to only last ten minutes. There were nights, most nights honestly, I’d let it go on too long. Regularly I woke up with the feed still in my arm and a pool of drool on my chest. But I could do that. I was careful. My feed was virtually an antique. Getting technical it was a hot jack, but nothing like what the kids used. My feed came in low and slow, not like what you’d find in a hothouse. Using one of those was like sticking a fire hose into your port. My feed was a drinking straw by comparison. I plugged in and let the TV run. Soon everything started to blur and the words coming from the news anchor’s mouth ran together. My head tipped back and my mouth fell open. Something like a calm came over me. I was on the wire. * * * * * I introduced Berger to Carroll on a Thursday. We were at Carroll’s house in the Bayside Estates overlooking the water. Property on the water was expensive. It came with gates and guards and during the uprising it was a sanctuary. Cars never passed through the neighborhoods that Berger and I called home. You would see an occasional truck, usually some RomaCorp vehicle delivering something or other to one of their big, shiny shops, the ones that were driving all the other stores out of business. But anyone who’d had a car before the government fell had long since sold it. They either needed the money or got tired of not being able to find fuel. And if they didn’t sell it outright they stripped it themselves for parts. But in Bayside Estates there was a vehicle in every driveway, sometimes two. Carroll’s place was on a hill, overlooking the private marina where Bayside residents kept their toys. We were on a porch that came off the living room. A pair of reclined lawn chairs sat next to a table covered by an umbrella. A wrought iron railing circled the patio, and Berger seemed distracted by the boats that were racing the sun back into the marina. Several sails were fully extended and puffed out by the wind. Carroll had the help, Magda, bring three tall glasses of iced tea. She sat them in front of us and Carroll slid a list of names and addresses across the table to me. I did a quick count. Five items on the sheet. “We start tomorrow night at 9 p.m. Those first two names go then. The other three go on Saturday. Early morning so don’t go staying out all night. I need you fresh. Him too.” Carroll pointed at Berger and Berger turned and looked at us. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll be fresh.” As we walked back to Raul’s to get ready for that night’s action we stayed on the streets that were well lit. The sun was setting and casting long shadows down the asphalt. The buildings were getting taller as we headed into downtown and I explained what it was that Carroll did. “It’s called data running,” I said, waiting at a corner for a man pulling a small cart on the back of his bicycle to pass, the orange flag attached to the seat popping in the breeze. A horn blew down the block and a moment later a large box truck with a RomaCorp “R” painted on the side rumbled through the intersection. We waited for the truck to pass before we crossed and I continued explaining. Berger nodded like he knew what I was talking about but I know he didn’t. I lifted my left sleeve to expose the port in my arm, just below my elbow. “You’re on the wire?” Berger asked. I nodded and told him that I could be. “I’ve got the equipment, but I don’t use it. Not often anyway.” Obviously, a lie. “So, what does your port have to do with Carroll and this job?” “It’s how they run data.” We turned the corner and passed the restaurant we ate at a few nights before. Generators rumbled to life. Shop keepers were preparing for the night and little pools of light began to litter the sidewalk. “They sit a guy in a chair; hook him up to a feed. They dump whatever info that needs to travel securely into a part of the brain that’s not being used and send him off with an address on a page and the name of someone to ask for. Once they get to wherever it is they’re supposed to go they get hooked back up and the data is pulled out of their heads. All we have to do is make sure they get there.” “Ever done it? Run data?” “No. Dealing with a data feed that intense you can get hooked. Plus, it’s risky. I’ve seen too many runners not get up from the chair.” Berger shook his head. “I don’t think I could. I don’t care what the pay is like.” We took the steps down to Raul’s basement two at a time. A crowd had gathered and it looked like it would be a good night. Get too many men in the basement and it felt like you were in a coffin. You were sure the low ceilings were about to close in on you and the crowd made the fighting area small. You were grappling more than fighting. Not that it mattered much since outcomes were predetermined, at least for the most part. Early fights, like the ones that we’d walked in on, were legitimate. Raul was scouting talent. It was during one of these fights a few months ago that we each first saw Berger. He was paired with another man who was a head shorter and at least fifty pounds lighter. Berger made short work of him, leaving the other guy little more than a bump on the floor. Raul nudged me in the middle of the fight and smiled. I only nodded. * * * * * I caught a surprise right at Raul’s and my left eye had started to go black. “Looks like you got on the wrong end of something,” Carroll said when he opened the back door to his shop. In the front he sold some of this and some of that. Whatever he could find that someone would pay money for found a place on his shelves. I stepped through the door, Berger behind me. The room was unfinished but well-organized. Three reclined chairs sat in front of sets of monitors. The chairs were raised a foot or so from the concrete floor and there was a stool next to each of them so the technicians running the machines had some place to sit. When we arrived there was a young man in the seat on the right. He had his head laid back. Dark circles under his eyes and his hair was a mess of weeds. His jeans were soiled and stained. I looked at Berger. “This one should be easy. Carroll wouldn’t give an important job to this kid.” We walked to the table Carroll was sitting behind. He slipped me another sheet of paper with an address written on it. “This one’s just a warm up,” he said. “So the new guy can get his feet wet.” Carroll pulled two flashlights from behind the desk and passed them to us. He stood and said “Let me see them.” Berger and I pulled our shirts up above the waistband on our pants and showed Carroll that we had guns. He nodded and we walked to meet the guy we were escorting. We all shook hands and our runner’s grip was soft. He could barely keep his eyes open and Carroll slapped him across the face. “Stay awake,” he shouted then turned to us. “Be back soon. Got a bigger one after this one gets there and back again.” “A Hobbit’s tale,” Berger whispered. I looked up at him but he had his eyes on the kid we were escorting. We let him through the door first then followed a few steps behind. “We walk next to him we draw attention so we’ll stay back here. He knows where he’s supposed to go.” We’d gone three blocks before a man in a torn denim jacket approached with his hand in his pocket. He whispered something into our boy’s ear and the boy pushed the man away. He stumbled then put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. Berger took a step toward them but I put a hand on his chest, telling him to hang back for a second. The pair exchanged a few words before our boy pulled a couple of wadded bills from his pocket and handed them to his friend. The man stepped away, down an alley, and was gone. “What was that?” Berger asked. “Why didn’t you want me to move in?” “He was just trying to scrounge a couple bucks.” “How did you know he wasn’t dangerous?” “I see him every time we come this way. Even helped him out a few times.” “You couldn’t warn me about guys like him?” “Ahh, he’s the only one. We see anyone else you can go up and knock a few heads.” Berger smiled. We kept walking, passing shops that were closed and a man sitting on a corner, a small generator rumbling behind him. The generator powered a weak light on a tall stand pointing at the ground. He was surrounded by small bottles of gasoline for sale; stuff likely siphoned from those few who were lucky enough to have a working automobile. Berger and I acknowledged the man as we passed and he gave us a wave. The young man we were following looked back at us and pointed at the door of a small office tower. He rang a buzzer and told the woman who answered who he was there to see. Berger and I waited on the street and ten minutes later the boy came back out, his eyes half open. The walk back to Carroll’s shop was easy. He got up from behind his desk when we returned. He paid the boy then sent him on his way. There was a man in the chair with a feed in his arm. He was dressed in pressed black pants and a crisp white shirt with a sleeve pulled above his elbow. A jacket was draped across the chair next to him. He was older than our previous escort but clean cut with his hair slicked straight back. It was held in place by some sort of grease that I could smell when we entered. He gave us a wave and I returned it. “It go well?” Carroll asked. “Uneventful,” I said. Carroll pulled a map from the drawer in his desk and laid it on the table. He smoothed it flat with both hands and started tracing a route. “This is a little dated but it’ll give you two an idea of where you’re headed. You following my finger?” We both nodded. Carroll drew a path along a street that ran next to the south bay and into the rail district. He stopped at an address I recognized but for bad reasons. I looked up at Carroll and he smiled at the confused expression on my face. “That’s a hothouse,” I said. “Yep. Genius right? No one would think anyone other than addicts are in there.” I looked back at the map. “Genius wouldn’t be the word I’d use. I used to work that district. Cops hated it. Soldiers hated it. You think we can walk a guy in there with a starched shirt and nice suit and not stand out?” “You’ll be fine. You’ve got what’s in your waistband. You know how to use it. I figure he does too.” Carroll pointed at Berger. “You want us to walk your guy down there then you have to do something for me. Tell me what he’s got.” Carroll laughed and shook his head. “You’re funny. And no. Your job is to get him there and back again.” “A Hobbit’s tale,” Berger whispered. “You don’t get to know what the data is,” Carroll hadn’t stopped talking. “What you get is a payday.” He pulled two stacks of cash – at least a thousand dollars in each – and laid them on top of his desk. “That’s half. You get him back here safely and I get confirmation that everything went well with the data transfer, you get the other stack.” Carroll pulled out the other half of the money and laid it on the desk as well. Berger tapped my arm. He had a smile on his face. I was smiling too, inside. “I wish that was enough,” I said. “Want us to walk fancy pants over there into the rail district you’re going to tell me what it is you’re planting in his head.” Carroll thought for a moment. “If those are your terms then I’m sorry.” He pulled one of the stacks off the table. I slammed my hand on the top of two of the other stacks and Berger followed, grabbing the fourth. “Changing your mind once the incentive comes of the table?” “Not at all,” I said. “You’re going to use us. You’re going to pay us. This money and a little more now. But you’re also going to tell me what it is we’re transporting.” “The deal is you walk him, you deliver him, and you bring him back. That’s it.” I pulled the two stacks of cash close to my edge of the table and Carroll reached behind him. He pulled a pistol from his waistband and pointed it at me. “Stop,” he said, the end of his gun a few inches from my face. I looked past the barrel of the gun. My eyes met his. He wasn’t joking. A gunshot rang out and Carroll jumped. I dropped to the ground and snapped my head to the side. Berger was pointing the gun I’d given him back at the technician monitoring the feed. He’d blown a hole in the wall just above the man’s head. The technician cowered, his eyes opened wide. He shook. The man with the feed in his arm had rolled to his stomach. “How about you tell my man what he wants to know and let us get on with our night,” Berger said. “It’s getting late.” Carroll kept the gun pointed at me and started to laugh. “Feisty,” he said through a chuckle. “I like this one. I’m still not telling you what you want to know, but I have a proposition if you’re willing to listen.” I nodded and Carroll took the stacks of cash left on the table and pulled them towards him. He reached below the desk and pulled out two more. “How does that look? Three grand for each of you.” Berger gave me a small nod and I turned back to Carroll. “Make it four.” Carroll considered it for a moment. “If it’ll keep the guns put away then I think I can do that. But you get half now, the rest later.” “No, keep it all here for now,” I said. “I’m not carrying that much money with me into the rail district.” * * * * * We walked in a tight group this time. We were heading toward trouble, not away from it and it was safer if we all stayed close to each other. Berger was nearest to the street, I was next to the buildings, and the runner was between us. “So that was fun,” he said to the two of us. “It happen much?” “No, that was a first,” I said. “But you seem like a special delivery. This works better if we don’t do a lot of chatting. You can ask all the questions you want on the way back.” He shut up and took a few steps ahead of us. Berger dropped back to stand next to me. He pointed at a few guys standing across the street. “Concerned?” “Not yet,” I said. The ships along the south bay were loaded with mismatched boxes and shipping containers. Men worked through the night getting cargo ready to drop onto the overstuffed decks. Cranes groaned over our heads, pulling boxes up and onto the ships. Men called out instructions and the ships fought against the ropes holding them close to the docks. Berger watched the action and shook his head. “Horrible job,” he said. “I don’t care how much you paid me, I wouldn’t do it again.” Spray from the bay caught the men working around the ships. Most wore long pants and t-shirts that were dripping wet. “I don’t know,” said the runner, his jacket now off and thrown over one shoulder. “It can’t be as bad as what we’re doing now.” “Nah,” said Berger. “That work is worse. You know how much I’d have to work to make what I am going to make tonight?” “Yeah, but it’s a risk and reward thing,” I said. “How many guys you know died doing that job?” the runner asked. “You mean physically or otherwise?” Berger asked. “Because I’m not sure there’s a difference.” “Then you’re an idiot,” the runner said. Berger popped him in the back and the runner stumbled forward. Across the street from the docks were dive bars and diners. Patrons of both milled about the sidewalk. Some were walking to the diners to try and eat away the drunk they’d just spent the last few hours working on. Others were going to drink away the last few hours they’d spent working. Just past the bars the streets got dark again. No more ships on our right side, no more open establishments on our left. That meant no generators powering any lights, only the moon reflecting off the water. I put my arm on the runner’s shoulder and pulled him back between us. “Stay here,” I said and slipped the gun from my waistband. I showed my piece to Berger and he pulled his. We were entering what used to be the rail district. What remained of a few locomotives were up ahead. Most of the hulls of the diesel engines had been picked clean by scavengers. Groups of people roamed between the remains. Two sets of tracks were on our right and just past them the water from the bay. When this place was vibrant and alive with activity there would have been hundreds of men unloading freight and getting it ready to send it to either the shops or the ships. Combine this area with the ships tied to the docks at the south bay and you had near constant activity. Men working at jobs that paid well. Feeding families. Earning regular incomes. The restaurants that were across the street were mostly abandoned now, but not then. Then they would have been busy even at that time of night. Guys would be dropping in either on the way home after working the night shift or coming in for lunch break from the third shift. But not anymore. Now the street was mostly boarded up windows and doors. A few shop keepers were still trying to make a go of it, selling whatever they could find that people wanted to buy. I reached behind the runner and tapped Berger on the shoulder. “You watch that side.” I gestured toward the long-closed shops. “Keep a special eye on the alleys.” Berger nodded. There were more tracks on our right side now. We were getting to the heart of the district and there must have been a dozen sets, most with train cars still sitting on them. I could hear men talking, more mumbled noise than actual words. Fires burned in barrels and I moved my index finger to the trigger of my gun. The air had become electric. The volume of data running through a hothouse gave off a current, and I could feel the air begin to crackle. There was a buzz. We were getting close to the hothouse. Strung out data freaks were stumbling around the streets after getting a fix. Others were passed out on the sidewalk, only able to walk a few hundred yards before their legs turned to mush. Lights on a standard lit the side of an old warehouse like midday. It was made of poured-concrete and was a deathly grey. The building was four stories tall and graffiti covered the lower third. An ornate, hand-painted H was on the wall next to the bay door that everyone seemed to be entering. I put my arm in front of the runner to get him to stop. “You know where to go from here?” I asked him. He nodded and said, “Yeah, I think so.” “Think so?” I shook my head. “Well, we’ll be waiting here.” “You aren’t going up with me?” “Carroll’s not paying us enough to do that.” “What do you mean? Is there something I should know about a hothouse?” “You telling me you’ve never been to a hothouse before?” He shook his head. “Oh, jeez.” I ran my hand through my hair. “Pull up your sleeve.” A fresh scar. “How long have you had the port?” “A few months,” he said. “And how long have you run data?” “Never. But the pay’s good.” “So you aren’t really on the wire then? Not an addict? Don’t have any idea how any of this works.” He shook his head again. “No, but I need to make money.” “Yeah, I understand.” I paused a moment. “We’ll take you all the way in. Just tell me where we’re going once we get inside.” “All I was told was third floor.” “Fantastic. Stay between us then. “ We walked to the bay door and I flashed my gun to the man taking money. He waved us through and we stepped into a large open room, no doubt used to house boxes and crates when this place had a purpose. Now, everything was cleared out and the floor was empty except for the bundles of wires in each of the four corners. They dropped from the ceiling then spread into individual feeds when they hit the ground. Addicts lined each of the walls, feeds coming from the ceiling stuck into ports in their arms or necks. We found the stairs on our left and stepped over a man who’d stopped to sit near the bottom step of the first floor. He’d laid his head to the wall and looked like he hadn’t been awake for days. A girl was spread across a step just a few above him. “This is all so sad,” the runner said. “Keep your head forward and don’t stop moving.” We rounded the corner on the third floor and the runner stopped. We were at the end of a long hall and doors lined either side. A naked bulb hung in the middle of the hall and provided just enough light to make everything shadows. “I’m good from here,” the runner said. Berger and I waited at the top of the steps and the runner found the third door on the left. He knocked twice. The door creaked as it opened. The runner opened his mouth to offer a hello and there was a thundering bang. His head snapped back and bits of him landed on the wall behind him. He stumbled back and his body rode the wall to the ground, blood beginning to stain his shirt. Berger reached into his waistband to pull his piece, but I stopped him. “What?” He asked. “It’s too late and they don’t know we’re here. Let’s get out while we can.” “But …” “While we can.” We got to the bottom floor as quick as we could and made double time back to Carroll’s. Back through the rail district. Back through the south bay. And back to Carroll’s just before midnight. I tried to barrel a shoulder into the door but the lock wouldn’t give. Berger took a running start and put his massive weight into it. The door swung open and Carroll was in the middle of the room, his gun drawn. His shoulders relaxed and he let out a deep sigh. “It’s only you two. Where is he? Where’s my guy?” “Depends on whether or not he believed in God.” “What happened?” “Didn’t get a word out,” Berger said. “They dropped him before he could say hello.” “Shot?” “Between the eyes,” I said. “Your data’s safe. Big caliber. Close range. No way they get anything out of him now.” “Well, at least there’s that.” “Yes, the bright side of murder,” Berger said. “I was afraid something like this was going to happen,” Carroll said as he began to pace the room. “You mean you knew this was going to be an ambush?” I asked. “I didn’t know it would be, but I was afraid.” “So you sent him in there to die?” Berger asked. “No,” Carroll said. He stopped walking and turned to face me and Berger. “I sent him in there to run data. But I was worried that someone had been tipped this drop was taking place.” “So, you not only sent him in there knowing he could die, you sent me? You sent us?” I asked. Carroll walked a bit closer and pointed at me. “Cop,” he said. Then he pointed at Berger. “Soldier. I figured you two knew how to take care of yourself.” “It’s not the point,” I told him. “You sent two men, lightly armed into what you thought could have been an ambush.” “You’re standing in front of me aren’t you? Quit being hysterical.” Berger sat in a technician’s chair and put his head in his hands. Carroll moved back behind his desk and I followed him. “What have you gotten into?” I asked, keeping my voice low. Berger didn’t need to know more than he already did. “I’m making a move.” “And you’re using us to do it?” Carroll pulled a book from his desk and flipped through pages. “I don’t have a choice.” His finger scanned a few lines then he turned the book and slid it in front of me. “This is what he was transporting. We’re trying to wrestle a bit of control away from RomaCorp. Or at least trying to get our share. A few of us anyway.” “You’re insane.” He was absolutely crazy to think that he could do anything to harm RomaCorp. RomaCorp was too big. RomaCorp was trying everything it could to fill the vacuum that was left when the government fell. Trying to provide everything that anyone could want or need. RomaCorp made and sold everything. Lunch meat? Best around. Bread to put the lunch meat on. They had it. Mayonnaise? Yep. A refrigerator to keep it all in? Of course, cheap too. And if you were in the right parts of the city you could also pay RomaCorp to provide the electricity to keep the refrigerator running. “One company doesn’t get to make all the money.” Carroll said. “It doesn’t get to run everything. There’s plenty of business to go around. We’ve been swapping information, a few friends and I, for months now. We thought someone may have leaked something to RomaCorp security. Now we know they did.” “So your runner died for confirmation.” “No, well, not really. He died for the greater good.” “For your greater good,” I said. “What about our money?” “Actually, I’ve got a better idea,” Carroll said as he grabbed my arm. He pulled my sleeve up to expose my port. “Here’s my proposition.”