The Electric Church Part 6

I exhaled my kidneys and went down to my knees like a sack of s.h.i.t. I tried to breathe, experimentally, but it felt like a small rubber cork had been shoved down my throat.

"Mr. Cates," Moje said, breathing hard. "My name is Elias Moje, please don't ever forget it, because you have been brought to my attention. brought to my attention."

Oh, f.u.c.k. I thought. I thought. This guy takes himself pretty f.u.c.king seriously. This guy takes himself pretty f.u.c.king seriously. At my alt.i.tude all I could see were his shiny, shiny boots. At my alt.i.tude all I could see were his shiny, shiny boots.

"I was inspired by certain parties to pull your file, Cates, and spent an afternoon reading it. You think you're world-cla.s.s. world-cla.s.s. You think you're a You think you're a bad man. bad man. Let me tell you something, Mr. Cates: You are not a Bad Man. Let me tell you something, Mr. Cates: You are not a Bad Man. I I am a Bad Man." am a Bad Man."

With a large rock lodged somewhere in my windpipe, I could only stare at his incredibly shiny shoes while dark red spots crowded in on my vision. I thought, s.h.i.t, who's paying this son of a b.i.t.c.h to run me off this job? s.h.i.t, who's paying this son of a b.i.t.c.h to run me off this job?

"I know that you're working for Marin, that f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k," Moje hissed. "I'm telling you to back off. Don't get into s.h.i.t with the Electric Church, got it? I'm telling you to go away. Go hide somewhere."

A pinhole opened in my throat and I sucked hoa.r.s.e, wheezing air through it. Moje nudged me roughly with his boot. "Got me, s.h.i.thead?"

I put my hands palms-down on the pavement and panted, the pinhole getting wider. "Yeah, I got you."

"I'll be watching you, Cates. Behave yourself."

I watched his boots sc.r.a.pe their way off, and Moje receded into a smaller version of himself, and was then swallowed by the suddenly returned crowd. Gatz eventually helped me up, and I wiped spit off my chin and watched where Moje had been, burning with a shameful fury.

"He doesn't like you," Gatz offered.

"Lots of f.u.c.king help you were," I snapped. "And it has nothing to do with me, f.u.c.k. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d's getting paid."

It was pretty common for corporations or very rich private citizens to hire System Cops as bodyguards or what have you-officially illegal but the DIA winked at it, usually, if they even knew about it. Whoever'd paid Moje had obviously cheaped out and not gone full-price to just have me murdered. Or maybe they just thought I was your typical street rat, and easily scared. Or maybe they had had paid Moje to kill me, and he was just trying to rip them off, take their yen without breaking a sweat. Or maybe Moje was too terrified of d.i.c.k Marin to just kill me-who knew? And if that was the case, who would terrify Moje enough to even get him to go this far against the King Worm? Thinking this, it hit me: If Moje wasn't collecting a check from the Electric Church, I'd eat my f.u.c.king shoes. If the stupid motherf.u.c.ker thought his sad display of power would somehow make me less terrified of d.i.c.k Marin, the stupid motherf.u.c.ker was in for a lesson. paid Moje to kill me, and he was just trying to rip them off, take their yen without breaking a sweat. Or maybe Moje was too terrified of d.i.c.k Marin to just kill me-who knew? And if that was the case, who would terrify Moje enough to even get him to go this far against the King Worm? Thinking this, it hit me: If Moje wasn't collecting a check from the Electric Church, I'd eat my f.u.c.king shoes. If the stupid motherf.u.c.ker thought his sad display of power would somehow make me less terrified of d.i.c.k Marin, the stupid motherf.u.c.ker was in for a lesson.

We blended again, becoming just another pair of unhygienic a.s.sholes in the ma.s.s. Milton Tanner were living a straight life up in Old Chelsea, running what, from all reports, was a profitable store selling artistic little bric-a-brac to rich f.u.c.ks. I hadn't heard much about Milton Tanner, as they were before my time, and were over forty, to boot, adding a layer of unbelievability to it all. I didn't know anyone anyone over forty, except Pick. It was like Gatz and I were going to meet a leprechaun. over forty, except Pick. It was like Gatz and I were going to meet a leprechaun.

The streets thinned out as we headed uptown, and the empty sh.e.l.ls of buildings gave way to merely decrepit, sagging old stone structures that should have been blasted away and replaced with the shining new metal ones, except that everything ground to a halt twenty years ago and never quite got started again. Even those shining new buildings uptown were starting to look a little run-down.

The shop was called Tanner's, and the windows on the street were big and clear and unbroken, filled with the most ludicrous bulls.h.i.t I'd ever seen. Little figurines, wooden jewelry boxes, c.r.a.p like that. I felt grimy and dirty, and self-conscious-we'd lost our camouflage and stood out against affluence, even the very edge of affluence. I looked at Gatz and he just shrugged raggedly. I squinted at him.

"When was the last time you ate, man?"

He shook his head. "Food just makes me sick."

Tanner's was warm and inviting, filled with all kinds of useless c.r.a.p. Furniture, lamps, knick-knacks, art pieces lined the walls and tables. There was barely any place to walk. I felt huge, shouldering my way through all the dusty s.h.i.t, my eyes scanning the ceiling for the obvious security measures. Just as I was wondering where in f.u.c.k Milton and Tanner were, were, I turned a corner and stopped short, finding a tiny, craggy old woman blocking my way, arms akimbo. I turned a corner and stopped short, finding a tiny, craggy old woman blocking my way, arms akimbo.

"I hope, hope," she snapped, "that you didn't come in here thinking to be robbing us, kiddo. You're on the system, and you wouldn't get far."

I smiled. "I look that desperate, eh? To rob this f.u.c.king place?"

It was insulting. I was a Gunner. I worked for a living. I didn't have to steal.

She looked me over from foot to head. "You look like a punk."

That was insulting. I turned the smile off. "I see the f.u.c.king cameras, Mother, and I see the field trips embedded in the walls. I didn't come here to rob you. Pick suggested your name for a job." was insulting. I turned the smile off. "I see the f.u.c.king cameras, Mother, and I see the field trips embedded in the walls. I didn't come here to rob you. Pick suggested your name for a job."

She shifted her weight slightly and suddenly seemed quizzical, less p.i.s.sed off. She even smiled a little. "A job? What the h.e.l.l do I want a job for? Do you have any idea how much money we make with this place?"

I looked around. "This c.r.a.p sells?"

"It sure does, kid," a voice came from behind. I turned, startled, and found the same woman standing behind me. She was even standing arms akimbo, and a brief moment of complete confusion shuddered through me. f.u.c.king twins.

"All right," I said, nodding. "Which one's Milton and which one's Tanner?"

The second woman shook her head. "Doesn't matter."

The first said, "Come on in the office, then, sonny, and we'll talk business."

The second added, "Bring your scabby little friend, too."

The first, "I don't trust him out here alone. Sticky-"

The second, "-fingers."

"Don't worry," I said, gesturing at Gatz, who was, indeed, examining some of the s.h.i.t closely, as if it might profitably disappear into his skeletal hands. "He's coming. I insist."

The two women cackled simultaneously, freaking me out. "He thinks-"

"-he's got-"

"-some pull, like it ain't us-"

"-that's got the guns on him!"

I scanned the room again, gritting my teeth against the embarra.s.sment of having to. I didn't see anything. I looked back at the first one. "No f.u.c.king way."

She sneered at me. "Gunners."

The back office was plush, carpeted, and climate-controlled, dominated by a huge wall-mounted Vid and two oversized wooden desks, ornately carved, pushed together head-to-head. The twins each took a seat and left Gatz and me standing. I glanced around, shrugged, and shoved a pile of papers off one of the desks with a flourish, hefting myself up onto it, facing them both simultaneously. I was about as uncomfortable as possible, but I wasn't about to tell them that.

They looked at the papers on the floor sourly. The second one said, "Your boy's gonna clean that up before he leaves, yeah?"

I blinked. "Probably not. And I'd like to see you make him. I'm here with a job offer. You interested, or are you making so much skag with this bulls.h.i.t you're just enjoying breaking my b.a.l.l.s?"

The second one shrugged. "Sonny, we like like breaking b.a.l.l.s." breaking b.a.l.l.s."

The first one nodded. "We earned it."

"Wasn't for Pick, we wouldn't even talk to you," the first one said. "He's the only f.u.c.ker we know of 'round here that's older older than than us. us."

"How do you know Pick?" I asked, to be polite. Polite did wonders for the oldsters. Anyone who'd been an adult before Unification, a few yessirs yessirs and and noma'ams noma'ams could go a long way. could go a long way.

"School," they said simultaneously.

"We worked with him on some government projects, back when things were still sane," the first one continued.

"Genetics," the second one added. "It was amazing to have the chance to work with him."

I tried to picture these two as scientists. It was an amusing image, these two leathery old broads rubbing their chins wisely, wearing white coats or some s.h.i.t. It made sense, though; a lot of the best crooks after Unification had been real brains, scientists and economists and s.h.i.t. Unification had done some weird things to people, people you'd never expect. It had killed my father, who'd seemed tough as steel to me when I was a kid, and it had turned these two freaky twins into thieves, and good ones. It was hard, after twenty years of living life on the streets of New York, to picture these two as fancy academics, but I'd seen stranger things.

"f.u.c.king Joint Council tried to recruit us all," the first one said with a grin full of shockingly good teeth, yellowed but strong and unbroken-sort of like the women themselves. "We were living in a commune upstate-remember?"

The second nodded, her eyes on me. "Sure, sure-Freedom Gardens. Naked f.u.c.king kids, every-f.u.c.king-where."

"We were living up there with Pick, just watching everything happen, after the schools were all shut down and our funding cut off, and the JC sent a couple of shiny new undersecretaries up there to offer us all jobs. Some project they were all working on, right after the JC formed, something top secret, very hush hush."

They both grinned. "We told 'em to stick it!"

They glanced at each other without moving their heads, just eyes sliding to the side. "s.h.i.t," the first one said with a sigh. "They f.u.c.king raided the place a month later. Pick had a bolthole and we got out, but they tore the place down."

"We've been making our way off the books ever since."

"In other words, kid, Pick and us, we go way back. And that's the only reason we're talking to you, okay?"

"So get-"

"-interesting fast. fast."

I shook my head. "You're talking to me because you're intrigued. intrigued. Look at you. Sitting here rotting away selling bulls.h.i.t to people you used to rob." I grinned. "Come on. You know me. You know I don't waste time." Look at you. Sitting here rotting away selling bulls.h.i.t to people you used to rob." I grinned. "Come on. You know me. You know I don't waste time."

They looked at each other. I could almost hear the static of communication between them. They looked back at me, creepy as h.e.l.l.

"We heard the name, Mr. Cates," the first one said. "You call me Milton."

I winked at the second one. "Tanner. Let's hear it."

They may not have bought the act, but they bought the job. When I was done with my high-concept gloss on the whole mess-boiling what was likely months of work and endless complexity into two sentences-they looked at each other with that crazy light of excitement and greed I recognized very well. Every crook got that look when you really got him interested.

Milton-or Tanner, who the f.u.c.k knew?-leaned back and regarded me. "You're either the most f.u.c.ked-in-the-a.s.s Gunner I've ever met, Mr. Cates, or onto something great."

"He's f.u.c.ked," Gatz said lazily. "Obviously f.u.c.ked."

"Either way," the other one said, "we want to be there to watch."

"What's our cut?"

I gave them a number, and for the first time since we'd walked in, they were silent, staring at each other, using that twin telepathy to hash it out with waggled eyebrows and dilated pupils, Morse code. Finally they looked back at me.

"We're in, Mr. Cates," they said simultaneously. "When do we get started?"

"Tomorrow night," I said, sliding off the desk and making for the exit. "I've got a few arrangements to figure."

From behind, I heard one of them call out, "Word is there's a System Cop's got your name tattooed on his a.s.s. You still gonna be alive by tomorrow night?"

I didn't look back. "Probably not."

XI.

Just Someone We Thought Was Dead 10000.

Outside Tanner's, Kev and I paused a moment. I watched the gray, sullen faces of people who marched to jobs working for people just slightly less poor than themselves. Or thieving and mugging and murdering their way through life. Few of us managed what Pick had managed, a little emperor of information in his back office.

I glanced at Gatz, who looked like he'd fallen asleep standing up. "s.h.i.t. I need a drink."

He nodded. "What the h.e.l.l. I don't have any appointments or job interviews today."

We started walking. I felt nervous, exposed. I'd imagined I'd stayed outside the sphere of the SSF's attention because I was smart and careful, but here we'd located several famous people on the SSF's most-wanted list in almost no time. It suddenly occurred to me that the System Pigs might know a lot more than they let on, and just let us all scamper about to see where we'd go, that maybe I wasn't as hidden as I'd thought. After all, we had engaged Pick in fifteen minutes of conversation, paid him a few thousand yen, and had the location of several desperate criminals. I had an uneasy feeling Pick got his info direct from the SSF databanks, and that maybe I was in there, too.

It never took long to find a booze establishment in Old New York, the ancient core of the city. This one looked nicely squalid-a transient, illegal bar, not like Pick's, which was mostly legal and had bribed its way to a truce with the Crushers. It was one of the hundreds of illegal, unlicensed places that sprang up for three weeks, raked in cash selling sewer liquor to anyone with yen, and then disappeared just before the System Pigs took an interest. It was an old bombed-out relic from the Riots that looked ready to fall over in a heap, its windows ragged empty s.p.a.ces. Scavenged tables and chairs had been scattered amongst the debris, and an open fire crackled in a trashcan in the middle of the room. I paused to admire the hand-lettered sign leaning up against the outside wall: live music every night. sitters must drink fast.

I turned to Gatz to say something about this, but the freak had kept shuffling forward and was already inside. I quickly followed him in. The only other customer was an Asian-looking kid, apparently asleep at a table, legs up, mouth open, sungla.s.ses obscuring his face, empty bottle between his ankles. I walked up to the makeshift bar while Gatz took a position near the door and removed his own gla.s.ses. Good lad, guarding my back.

The proprietor was a short, round, red-faced man who beamed at me with alarming jocularity.

"Welcome! Welcome to Rolf's by the Sea." He winked. "The Sea of Humanity, that is, flowing by our hallowed windows every day. We serve anything you want, as long as it is potato vodka. But we will call it whatever you wish."

I asked the obvious question. "Where in h.e.l.l do you get potatoes?"

He winked one bleary eye. "We call anything used to make our fine liquors potatoes, sir. It is a generic term."

I nodded. "Okay. Give me a bottle."

He nearly farted in excitement and scurried away, opening a well-locked, reinforced door and disappearing into the room beyond. Real restaurants had fancy delivery mechanisms and Droid waiters, but who could afford s.h.i.t like that? I drifted to sleeping beauty, pulled out the empty chair, and sat down.

"You have to sit here?" he said without moving.

I blinked. "No."

I grinned as the blobular Rolf arrived with amusing pomp and ceremony. The kid straightened and leaned forward, folding his legs underneath the chair with surprising grace, and said, "I wouldn't mind a blast."

I looked at him. He couldn't be more than a teenager, maybe eighteen at the most, but he was already ruined. Broken teeth, sallow skin, red eyes-a f.u.c.king waste. You could tell someone's status just by looking at him, because there were only two kinds of people in New York-maybe in the world-these days: Rich and Poor. If you were rich, you glowed with health, you benefited from organ replacements grown from your own DNA, noninvasive life-extension therapies, effective and current vaccinations-the whole deal. If you weren't rich, a.s.suming you made it out of childhood to begin with, you ended up looking like this kid. Like me. me. A walking corpse. You either had more money than I could even A walking corpse. You either had more money than I could even imagine, imagine, or you had nothing. That was it. or you had nothing. That was it.

You sometimes got a slummer in the gin mills, a rich f.u.c.k prowling around in a costume, pretending to be poor. That's all they ever did-pretend. When you're that rich, there's nothing else to do. Everything you did, by definition, was pretend, because you didn't have have to do anything. If you worked a job, it was for fun, because the jobs didn't pay s.h.i.t. Droids did everything better; humans were just expensive, unreliable, and, to be honest, p.r.o.ne to robbing you blind. to do anything. If you worked a job, it was for fun, because the jobs didn't pay s.h.i.t. Droids did everything better; humans were just expensive, unreliable, and, to be honest, p.r.o.ne to robbing you blind.

You were either rich, cop, or little people. It always p.i.s.sed me off when I saw some rich f.u.c.k pretending to do a job. There were people shuffling along outside right then who would kill for a job, any job. The only jobs left were in the Vids and the SSF. You could get into the SSF as a Crusher, a beat cop, which was better than nothing, but all it did was make your daily struggle for survival legal. Everything else you had to be rich in order to get the d.a.m.n job. It made my blood boil.

I shrugged and slid the cup over to him, uncorked the bottle, and poured him a blast. He took up his cup, nodded at me, and drank. I took a hit from the bottle and winced. The stuff tasted like p.i.s.s. Warm p.i.s.s. "How old are you?"

The kid scowled, squinting into the cup. "What is this, a date date? I'm nineteen."

I nodded. About right. Hadn't known any world but post-Unification. Had spent his whole life running through the sewers, terrified of the light because it usually turned out to be an SSF hover. I stood up. The booze was eating me from the inside, and I wanted to just puke it all back up. "Keep the bottle," I said, feeling tired.

He was already pouring himself another. "f.u.c.k, man, I owe you one."

I started for the door. f.u.c.k it, he'd be dead before long anyway, just like everyone else. Behind me, I heard a fussy, chubby little commotion.