The Eternal Prison (13 page)

 

Sliding into the booth across from Krajian, I kept my coat on and hunched my shoulders to try and minimize my profile. Everyone seemed to be laughing.

 

“If you wanted to kill me,” I said slowly, growling, “there are faster ways than parading me through a fucking
cop
bar.”

 

She leaned forward savagely, putting her face near mine. “The fucking Worms won’t come in here, okay? It’s the safest spot for
me.
I don’t recall giving a shit about you, Mr. —”

 

Before I could stop myself, I pounded the table with my fist. “Do
not
say my name here.”

 

She leaned back, and for a moment we just stared at each other. In the dim light her patch melded in with the shadows, and her exposed eye glowed dully as if some nonexistent light was shining behind me. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman, though her face was hard and angular, with a sharp nose and prominent cheekbones. She had a mean mouth, thin and severe, probably turning cruel when she smiled. I wasn’t sure if I would ever see her smile. I
was
sure I didn’t really want to.

 

“I thought Augments weren’t allowed in the SSF,” I finally said.

 

She started to respond just as a serving Droid arrived at our table on its silent wheels. It placed a gleaming glass of something clear and flat in front of her and then sat politely, waiting.

 

“Gin,” I said. “Warm.”

 

The Droid rolled away, and she leaned forward. “Don’t presume to ask me questions,” she said, suddenly calm. “You’re here from our mutual friend, yes?” Her eye locked on me; she picked up her glass and took a sip, surprisingly dainty. “Call me Krasa.” She leaned back, seeming to fold herself up into half the space, one leg curled under herself. “You do not look as I expected.”

 

I grinned as my drink was delivered. “Better looking?”

 

She snorted. “Shorter.” She leaned forward again, but this time there was an air of intimacy about her, as if we were about to share secrets, as if we were on some sort of horrible date. “What do you want, then? I’m about three days from following my partner down Marin’s fucking rabbit hole. Better talk fast.”

 

“What’d you do to get the Worms upset at you?”

 

She squinted at me and leaned back, regarding me with a slight kinking of her mouth that I decided had to be her smile. It was every bit as heartless as I expected. “I didn’t
do
anything, did I? I learned something I’m not supposed to know. My partner and I. Look around—every cop in here is still a fucking human being. I think. The new and improved ones don’t drink anymore.” She nodded her head toward the crowd around us. “Avatars.
That’s
what we found out. My partner’s gone. Burned.” She winked. “I will be going, soon.”

 

“So you just sit around and wait for it?”

 

She shrugged, leaning back again, settling in as if the booth had been molded to her body at the factory. “I’m a cop. Where the fuck do I go?”

 

I let that hang for a moment, letting it breathe. Then I looked up at her from under my eyebrows. “Can you get me inside The Rock?”

 

Her smile dripped over her face in stages, widening and getting colder as it went, until I thought my eyebrows might catch fire. “Why?”

 

I tried to match her smile, but I suspected I was completely outclassed in the fucked-up department. “I need information. Our mutual friend asked me to do him a favor.”

 

For a moment she kept that crazy grin on me, her patch a black hole that was sucking at me, making me lean forward slightly. Then she put both hands flat on the table, making our glasses rattle. “Okay,” she said brightly. “What the fuck. I’ve got nothing to lose. These cops in here”—she jerked her head to indicate the rest of the bar—“are maybe the last fucking real cops left in this city. Who knows? Maybe the world. We’re being burned, one by one, carted off and never seen again.” She winked. “I’m on the short list. So what the fuck. You want in The Rock?” She nodded once, curtly, and then stood up.

 

“You’re under arrest,” she said, loud, snapping a pair of silicone bracelets from her coat with a crack. I hadn’t had time to process this before she leaned in and grabbed hold of my arm, pulling me up with surprising strength and bending it back behind me, shoving me down until my head cracked against the tabletop. With a practiced, efficient jerk the straps were around my wrists and pulled numbingly tight, and then her fist was curled in my hair and pulling me up. I was spun around and found a silent bar of shadowed, soundless men and women staring back at me.

 

This had taken a second. This had taken
no fucking time at all.

 

I closed my eyes and tried to be outraged, but it wasn’t in me. I was amused. I’d let my guard down around a fucking System Pig, after all, and this is what I got—I
deserved
this.

 

She frisked me professionally—one hand on my neck the whole time, in case I got ideas, one hand pushing and patting, checking every possible spot for a concealed weapon. She took my gun and blade immediately and eventually found the small pot sticker I kept in my boot, snorting in triumph.

 

I kept my head down, smiling at the floor, to try and stop any of her colleagues from getting a good scan of my face. I took a few glances around, to see how we were playing to the audience, and was surprised—they all looked bored, unhappy. Like none of it mattered anymore. I could hear distant rumbles, like thunder but more regular: bombing. The Undersecretaries were doing their usual announcement of intent, endlessly softening up New York’s defenses. The low wail of an alarm rose up, distant and everywhere, making my ears twitch.

 

“Move,” she snarled, giving me a good shove. I stumbled into motion and walked toward the exit. Behind me, I heard her talking low into the air, her earbud catching everything.

 

“Control, this is Krajian H-U8-9 calling in an OFR negative for peace violation,” she said, giving me occasional encouraging taps on the back. “I need a transport.”

 

At the front door I obliged by pushing it open with my head. Outside it had gotten darker. The rumbling of big guns had joined the bombing, both fat and faint, a little twitch beneath your feet. People were moving rapidly up and down the narrow street, well-dressed folks obviously in a rush to get off the street before whatever was happening in the distance got any closer.

 

“What the fuck do you care why?” Krasa hissed, yanking once on my coat to make me stop moving. “Control, I need transport home. Since when do I have to explain why? I have a fucking shithead in custody. I need transport, and I need to book a Technical Associate consult with badge number 7-OI-4. Read that back? Confirmed.

 

“There,” she finally said, her voice falling to normal volume. “You wanted in The Rock? Easy fucking peasy.”

 

I turned to say something, but her fist, traveling at approximately the speed of light, changed my mind. And whipped my head around, knocking me off balance and sending me staggering into a small knot of horrified swells, most of whom ended up with a little blood splatter on their nice clothes for their trouble. A woman shrieked, and I was pushed roughly back at Krasa by several sets of hands.

 

I probed a loose tooth with my tongue, feeling nothing. “What the fuck was that for?”

 

Krasa’s smile was equal parts cruel and hopeless. “Realism.”

 

 

Our hover, a dented, rusty piece of shit from another century, rattled and wheezed its way through the air, low to the ground due to wartime airspace restrictions, and set us down on the roof of Rockefeller Center without any serious mishaps, which I attributed to the skill and patience of the pilot. Krasa pushed me very realistically into a large elevator that smelled like a magical combination of blood and piss. There was a large, crusted bloodstain on one wall of the elevator car, a dent in the exact middle of it as if some overenthusiastic System Pig had once literally beaten someone’s brains out on that spot. I stared at it as the door shut behind us.

 

“Ten, check in,” she said in a monotone. “Krajian H-U8-9.”

 

The elevator started to move. “You’re checking me in? Isn’t that a little too much goddamn
realism?
”

 

“Don’t cream yourself,” she said without looking at me. “I’m checking you in as an OFR negative, no positive ID. Gotta check you in. New directives—no one enters unless they’re checked in. Apparently there was an embarrassing moment a year or two ago.”

 

I nodded. I remembered it well. “Why are you helping me?”

 

She shrugged, still staring ahead. “This time next week, I’m disappeared. If you’re going to shove something hot and sharp up the King Worm’s ass, it’d be something to keep me warm wherever I’m going.”

 

The elevator doors opened, and I squinted into the bleached, bright light. The elevator disgorged into a small, shallow room, all white. There was room for maybe four or five people to stand uncomfortably in it. There was a round indentation in the wall, the only feature I could see. The light was eye searing.

 

“Krajian H-U8-9,” she said, and there was a soft
ding
in the air. “
Place subject’s face in scanner,
” a feminine voice said softly. I glanced at Krasa. She didn’t look at me but shook her head.

 

“Wait a sec,” she said. After another moment there was a flat, unhappy sound.

 

“Scan failed. Place subject’s face in scanner.”

 

The unhappy sound rang out again. “
Scan has failed.
”

 

“Override, enter as negative ID,” Krasa said. The happy
ding
sounded again, and suddenly a panel in the wall snapped open with an automated, smooth motion.

 

“
Entered,
” the voice responded. “
You have been assigned Interview Room seven-seven-eight-nine. Technical consultant is en route.
”

 

Krasa jerked me into motion again, pushing me through the narrow doorway, and we were inside The Rock proper. It was just as I remembered it: white corridors, harsh lighting, near-complete silence. A short corridor led to another elevator. Krasa dragged me into it with such vigor I thought she’d probably be able to just carry me the rest of the way; I slammed into the back wall and stayed there, breathing the heroically filtered air and studying her back. She had good posture.

 

Then another of those antiseptic halls, this time with a few helpful signs posted here and there, too small for me to glimpse. More people, too—desk cops, they looked like, their knuckles free from scabs, their clothes a little finer. Some were even carrying metallic mugs of coffee, like they lived in this whitewashed building. This while getting a cup of coffee on the streets of New York was almost impossible, even for the richies. We cut through them easily enough—none of them paid any attention to me at all, even when they gave Krasa a curt nod of recognition. At what appeared to be a random door, she jerked me to a stop and gestured. The door unlocked, drifting inward slightly.

 

“All right,” Krasa said. “You’re in.”

 

She shoved me against the door and it gave, admitting us into the familiar sight of a Blank Room, shielded from all signals and devoid of any kind of recording equipment, the System Pigs’ favorite place to encourage their prisoners to do some talking. I’d been in plenty of them. It was home.

 

For a second, I had one of my moments—my mind going blank, everything seeming to recede into shadow. It only lasted a second, and then I was blinking my eyes and trying to focus. Sitting at the small table that adorned every single Blank Room I’d ever been in—simple metal table, scuffed and scratched—was a pudgy young guy in a pricey but ill-fitting suit, his face just small, nervous eyes and a long, thick beard that completely covered his neck. He glanced up from his handheld as I entered and froze for a second. Then he shot up onto his feet, the handheld dropping to the floor with a crack, and staggered backward until he hit the wall.

 

“Fuck
me,
” he said in a tight, dry voice.

 

I smiled and stepped aside to let Krasa in. “Relax, Mr. Marko,” I said, feeling good. “I’m not here to kill
you.
” I winked. “Yet.”

 

 

 

 

X

THE LITTLE MAN AND HIS FREAKS

 

 

 

 

I lay half-upright on the cot and stared at the ceiling; the moon was bright and shadows pushed their way around, fading whenever one of the high clouds passed overhead, then clarifying silently. Marlena snored softly next to me, naked, her inked flesh black and gray in the weak light, her mouth open and slack. She always fell asleep next to me, snoring to make my teeth rattle. I wanted her to go away because I was getting to like having her next to me.

 

My shoulder ached a little where she’d inked me up. It was a surprisingly detailed sketch of a skull in profile, all black and gray, a garish black crown sitting on top and a cigarette burning between its grinning teeth. Underneath she’d laboriously spelled out tempus fugit, mors venit. I’d asked her what it meant and she’d said, “Time passes, death comes.