16 – Geared-up

  Split Sightz was a gun store two levels above Wizzie’s shop, on the north side of the megastructure. As he made his way toward it, Tony reviewed the new modifications to his cybernetic arm. Because the mods were designed following “standard” protocols, the firmware for his arm recognized them, and so, they’d integrated into his AUI seamlessly. Now, he could see the charge for his kinetic amplifier—100%—and an ammo count and targeting array for the needler. Currently, he had zero rounds of ammo, something he hoped to rectify in short order.

  Tony had been surprised at how little his arm had changed as a result of Wizzie’s work. It didn’t feel any heavier, thanks to the mechanical nature of his muscles; the arm’s firmware simply adjusted the standard settings so the densely packed muscle fibers compensated for the extra weight. The only noticeable change was the small, smoothly bored barrel aperture for the needler—fitted with a waterproof, polymer iris valve that would snap open and shut whenever he fired the weapon.

  “Guy did decent work.”

  “Wizzie?” Nora asked, correctly guessing that Tony was starting to feel isolated—friendless in a hostile area.

  “Yeah. Honest, too. Hope he finds me an eye.”

  “I could search the secondary markets, too, though I don’t have access to the merchant auctions that he does.”

  “Nah, forget it. You got me a hotel?”

  “Yes, Kiso Hotel. It caters to business professionals at a reasonable cost. It’s on level seventy, along with half a dozen other small hotels, so I believe you’ll blend in nicely.”

  Tony stepped onto an escalator, holding onto the rail as he looked out through massive plastiglass windows. It was the first good view he’d had of the park, though, in the dark, his eyes were drawn to the far side, where other megastructures towered into the sky, their windows ablaze with bright light. Massive neon-hued signs threw their garish light down onto the grass and trees, painting a picture that was anything but “natural.” Millions of people filled those buildings—anonymity wasn’t a big concern to him at the moment, especially with the AI having assigned him a random identifier.

  Stepping off the escalator, he followed his mini-map down an alley-like corridor, lined with shopfronts and recyclers. Loitering groups of youths hassled passersby, but most were used to the attention, tucking their chins and speeding their steps to get by. Tony simply glared at the kids, and they turned their attention elsewhere. Before long, he came to his destination, and frowned when he saw the signage—a large cartoonish mercenary gripping two improbably large submachine guns, teeth bared around an old-school stogie.

  “Split Sightz, huh?” He clicked his tongue and stepped through the automated door. Inside, it was a typical store, so he tried to let his dislike of the styling fade while he perused the stock. He hated that he had to buy a new gun; he’d grown to really like his pistol and several of the other guns he’d collected in the Blast. Still, he figured if he had to do it, he might as well try to find something he really liked.

  He didn’t need a small caliber—something quiet. He already had the needler in his arm, thanks to Azalea. A twinge of guilt washed over him at the thought. But he quickly chased it away. She’d been about to carve his femur out of his leg, and that was besides the fact that she’d sold him out to Eric almost immediately. It wasn’t like she was hurting for cash, anyway—the stuff he’d taken from her wouldn’t put her out of business.

  Forcing his mind back to the present, he continued toward a long plastiglass display case lined with handguns. He walked past the small-bore pieces, past the heavy calibers, and stopped at the one he’d been looking for—a Polk & Chang mass driver.

  It was technically a pistol, but not one a novice—or anyone without a serious grip and steady wrist—should ever touch. A bulky, predatory shape under a matte-black finish, its thick shroud concealed a micro-coil stack of high-density electromags and a flux-stabilized rail sleeve that hurled a ferromass slug down the bore with catastrophic force.

  Building a mass driver in a pistol format wasn’t something most gun companies could pull off. The cheap ones always failed after a handful of shots: barrels scored to ribbons by the magnetic pulse, battery cores permanently drained, or coils too weak to push the projectile anywhere near spec. Polk & Chang’s engineers had solved that with a Dust-fed supercap cell in the grip and a self-cooling flux jacket around the rails. It was bulky, mean, and built to survive. The price tag reflected the quality: 18,999 Sol-bits.

  Tony looked around the shop, saw that the only employee was helping a woman try on concealable holsters, and decided to do a little more shopping while he waited. He scanned the holsters for one that would fit the mass driver. It was too bulky to put under his arm, but he wasn’t buying it for concealment; half the point of a gun like that was the intimidation factor. He picked up a holster that would sit low on his hip, secured to his thigh with a buckled strap. By the time he walked back to the counter, the clerk was finishing up with the woman, so he waited.

  When the kid walked over, smiling and looking Tony up and down with his glossy black visor, Tony pointed to the case. “Need a piece out of here.”

  “Know what you want, hmm? Yeah, you look like a guy who’s familiar with his hardware. Which one’s got your eye?”

  “The Polk & Chang.”

  “Damn, seriously? Haven’t sold one of those in ages. Takes a certain kind of touch—I’m assuming you’ve used a mass driver before?”

  “I have, yeah. How’s the Dust usage on that thing?”

  “You’ll burn about forty raw units per shot. The cell is easy to charge, though, and it holds a thousand units. If you feed it refined Dust or something better, you’ll get a lot more mileage out of it.”

  “And slugs? What’s the capacity?”

  “Fifty ferromass slugs.”

  Tony nodded to the kid, impressed by the quick responses. “I’ll take it, and this holster. A box of slugs, too, and I need a couple boxes of needler rounds—shredders and botu-rounds.”

  “Not a problem. Any preference on the ammo manufacturer?”

  Tony shrugged. “Reliable.”

  “Got just what you need—we’re having a sale on Finch needler rounds.” He walked toward a door behind the counter, leading to the stock room, no doubt. “Anything else before I grab what you need?”

  Tony shook his head. “Nah, I’ll get my Dust at a dispensary.”

  “Good choice; the boss marks it up twenty percent.”

  “You got a range?”

  “What, here? Nah, man. There’s one in the building, though—sublevel five.”

  “That’s everything, then.”

  “Be right back.” The kid hesitated near the door and added, “There’s an auto-turret in the ceiling by the door. Don’t do anything…regrettable.”

  Before Tony could feign being offended by the suggestion, the clerk slipped through the door, and he was left alone in the shop. While he waited, he did some rough mental budgeting. Thanks to Azalea’s double-cross, he was still sitting on most of the pile of bits he’d brought with him from the Blast. He’d be dropping about 20k in the gun shop, leaving 80 and change. He’d have to spend a couple thousand on Dust for the pistol, and, if he wanted to be able to boost more than a few seconds, he’d probably need to spend another twenty thousand on some refined Dust to top off his reactor.

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  It was a lot of money to him at the moment, but pocket change for the old Tony. The thing was, if he wanted any sort of chance to pull off Addie’s plan, he’d need to act like he could afford it. There was no going in half-cocked. He glanced at his mini-map, saw that the Dust dispensary Nora had picked was only a five-minute walk, and slowly exhaled, trying to relax. He’d be ready for action soon.

  With that thought, he pushed up his sleeve and touched the biometric sensor Wizzie had installed on his forearm plate. With a soft snick, it unlocked, opening on the newly installed hinge, and exposing the mags for his needler. Tony pulled the two little canisters out and set them on the counter. He’d load them up before leaving.

  A couple of minutes later, the clerk returned, carrying a stack of boxes in his arms. One was large—like a shoebox—and the others were the smaller ammo boxes. Tony nodded to the bigger box. “I’m gonna go ahead and unbox that gun. Can you throw out all that packing?”

  “Um, it comes with a pretty nice ABS gun case—”

  “Nah, man. I’m not a tourist.”

  The kid nodded, setting the boxes on the counter. “Fair enough.”

  Tony immediately opened the shredder rounds, slotting the slender cartridges into the first of his needler mags. “I’m sure I’m making you nervous. Just send me the invoice. I’ll pay up while I’m loading.”

  “That’s one shiny arm mod. Holy shit—never seen one so sleek.”

  Tony nodded. “Quality work, yeah?”

  “Definitely.” The kid watched Tony work, stuffing the needler rounds into the mags for a few seconds, then slid the larger box closer to himself. “Want me to get the gun unpacked?”

  Tony nodded. “That’d be great. It come with any Dust at all?”

  “Something like a 20% charge.”

  “Perfect.” Tony glanced at the door as he spoke, wondering why he was suddenly feeling paranoid. Why was he loading up? There was no way in hell Eric had tracked him all the way to the megatower, and if he had, no way he could possibly have followed him around the interior—not with millions of other people moving to and fro. Right?

  Whatever the case, as he finished loading the mags and slotted them into his arm, he felt better. He pushed the cover plate down, looked at his AUI, and smiled as the ammo counts populated: thirty-five rounds of shredders and fifty-five rounds of the more slender paralyzers. He looked at the kid, watching as he peeled packing strips off the gun’s perfect matte finish. Tony pulled the box close, took out the two mags, and got to work loading them up with the ferromass slugs.

  Unlike needler cartridges or bullets, the slugs were inch-long, pointed cylinders of dense magnetic alloy. Slender despite their weight, they let him pack each of the two blocky magazines with fifty rounds. The kid set the gun on top of the box and watched him. After a moment, he said, “I’m not supposed to let customers load their guns in the shop.”

  Tony shrugged. “Tell your boss you figured it was better than trying to stop me.”

  “Yeah, that’s about what I was thinking. You want me to take the tags off this holster?”

  “Yep.” Tony grabbed the pistol, admiring its heft.

  “You can pair with it. Just hold down the button behind the sight—it’s in factory mode, so it’ll acquire your biometrics as the owner.”

  Tony nodded. “I used to have a Polk & Chang shotgun.”

  “Great company,” the kid said, peeling a price tag off the holster’s black, synthetic blend material. “Just don’t point the gun around after you put the mag in, cause the turret’s AI is a little jumpy.”

  Tony nodded, watching his AUI as the Nora paired with the pistol. The ammo counter appeared, along with crosshairs, and a Dust readout. Beside the Dust readout—17% at the moment—was a softly pulsing red dot. “What’s the red light on the pistol readout?”

  “Shot readiness. It takes about point-seven seconds to charge the mag-rail between shots.”

  Tony slammed one of the magazines into the gun’s grip, drastically altering the heft and balance. A moment later, after something whirred inside the gun’s frame, the red light turned green. “Nice.” He set it on the counter, then took a minute to put the holster on. “Thanks for your help, kid.”

  “No problem—gonna be able to pay my rent with the commission you earned me.”

  Tony snorted. “Not supposed to tell the customer that.”

  “Yeah, but my boss is an asshole.”

  “Fair enough.” Tony jammed the heavy pistol into the holster, smiling at the comfortable weight of it. He grabbed the three half-empty boxes of ammunition and slipped them into his duffel bag along with the extra pistol mag. “No need for a sack.”

  The clerk nodded. “Right. Well, take it easy, mister. Thanks for the business.”

  Tony paused, giving him a look, staring into the dark lens of his visor. “What’s your name?”

  “Spencer.”

  “I’ll have my AI write you a good review.” Tony liked how he hadn’t asked him any questions—hadn’t asked him anything about his business. “Keep it up, kid. You’ll go far in this biz.” With that, he nodded, zipped up his jacket, and then left the shop. As he walked, his mechanical fingertips brushed the grip of his new gun, ready to snatch it out and deliver fiery hell, but he wasn’t sure why. Nobody seemed to be following him, and he made his way to the Dust dispensary without incident.

  He stood in line, and fifteen minutes later, he walked away with two containers of Dust in his pocket—17k in finger-sized vials. It cost less than he’d feared, but that was the way he always estimated; he’d rather be surprised by a lower bill than a higher one. While he’d been there, though, he’d seen a price-watch link and had Nora make a connection. Now, she’d be able to give him exact prices from that dispensary. If his money situation didn’t turn around soon, he could always get similar links at other dispensaries around the district and take advantage of deals.

  Thoughts like that kept his mind busy as he made his way up to the hotel, and when he approached, shouldering his way through heavy lunchtime foot traffic, he frowned. “Not sure this is the right vibe for me, Nora.”

  “Kiso Hotel has excellent reviews, and I thought you’d appreciate the discreet nature of their business model. The entire operation is automated, and we can pay sol-bits and register using the ID the megastructure assigned you.”

  Tony nodded absently, looking toward the bank of indigo-tinted windows. The hotel’s sign was elegant, featuring cursive neon-blue lettering that read simply, “Kiso.” Another sign, matching it in style, promised business efficiency, privacy, and rest. What gave him pause was the corpo-style of the clientele going in and out the door. Tony shrugged. Nora was right; anonymous was good, and it was probably the last place Eric would look for him. With a final push, he made his way through the crowd to the doors and slipped inside.

  The noise of the busy megastructure promenade instantly faded, obscured by a noise-dampening field, and replaced by the gentle strumming of a stringed instrument he couldn’t have named if his life depended on it. The lobby was hushed and immaculate—polished stone, pale wood, a bonsai under a skylight projection—and automated check-in kiosks lined the far wall. Tony approached a vacant one.

  When he stood before the crystal-glass display, a young woman’s face appeared, classically beautiful, with carefully coiffed hair and understated makeup. “Welcome, Guest 44A. May I interest you in a stay at Kiso?”

  “Yeah, I’d like a room.”

  “We have two room styles available. The Executive and the Diplomat. Both room styles will serve as a restful sanctuary away from the busy city, but the Diplomat is equipped with a water-based shower and boasts an additional twenty square meters of space.”

  “What are the weekly rates?”

  The AI smiled, inclining her head slightly. “At this time, I can offer you the Executive for 1949 Sol-bits and the Diplomat for 2499 Sol-bits. These are nearly twenty percent less than our daily rates.”

  “I’ll take the Diplomat.”

  “Excellent, sir! Please place your palm on the pad before you so that I can key your room to your biometrics.”

  Tony went through the process, then walked deeper into the hotel’s section of the megastructure, down one hallway, then another, until he came to his room: 74. Inside, the first thing he noticed was the minimal space, and he quietly thanked himself for splurging on the “Diplomat” room. The décor was simple, but elegant—engineered flooring that looked like real wood, paneled walls, a couch that pulled out into a bed, a small counter with a food and drink dispenser, a built-in wardrobe, and a tiny bathroom with the room’s sole luxury feature: a shower.

  It wasn’t much, but it was fine for what Tony needed—a place to sleep and plan. He put his duffel in the wardrobe and then sat down on the couch. A moment later, he was pressing the pressure-sensitive tip of one of his Dust vials against the port on his pistol’s grip, and watching on his AUI as the Dust counter climbed toward 100%. The process was slow, so he set it down beside him and then took the other vial and performed the same process on his new Dust reactor.

  The vial of pearly, iridescent liquid—at least it looked like a liquid, but he knew it would immediately become a gas if he shattered the vial—sank into the port at the center of his breastbone, and, just like with the pistol, he could watch on his AUI as the Dust count increased and the purity improved. After a few minutes, it read:

  Dust Purity: Raw+ – 3.49 LIR

  Dust Capacity: 564/900

  Gain Rate: 1 unit per 70 seconds

  Current Dust-tech drain: 1 unit per 276 seconds

  He’d purchased “refined” Dust, which had an LIR of 4.09. It was mixing with what he’d had in his Reactor, though, and Nora was estimating that, by the time he filled the reactor, he’d be working with Dust with an LIR of 3.9 or so. It was enough to give him a few solid boosts—a couple of seconds each. It didn’t sound like much, but in a fight, speed was king, and his wire-job was about as good as they got.

  His new gun beeped, letting him know it was full, so he pulled the Dust vial out of the socket and set it aside, then, gun in hand, he leaned back on the couch. He felt better with a solid piece in his hand—and another built into his arm. He was tired, though, and he wanted to get some rest, but he didn’t see that happening anytime soon. He had things to accomplish—people to impress—and he didn’t know how much time he’d have. With that thought, he said, “Nora, take a message for Ads. It’s time we checked in.”

  “Roger—listening and encrypting. I’ll send it to the drop-mail address we set up.”

  Tony inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as he began to speak, “Ads, I miss you.” He exhaled shakily, surprised by the emotion that gripped his throat. After a few seconds, he continued, “I hope things are going well on your end. I think I’m in a safe spot, but I’ve already gotten myself on Eric’s radar. It started when I tried to pay a visit to an old friend…”