Chapter 35 Chapter 35: A Secret
As he prised open the crate with a grunt, Mary pressed again, “The book, dear? Its secret?”
Benjamin chose that moment to stride back into the room, sparing me from an answer I couldn’t give. John tossed a single bottle of Stims through the air toward me. I caught it on reflex.
“Nate said it was too dangerous for him to come here,” Benjamin announced, his face serious. “Said the streets are crawling with Charles’s eyes. He gave me this note for you, John.” He nodded at me. “And he sent the mute Rebel; the big, ugly one, to watch over her. Left him outside.” He handed John the folded note.
John unfolded it, glanced down at the writing, then passed it to Mary. I got the distinct impression he couldn’t read it himself. Mary scanned the words slowly, her lips moving slightly, before finally looking up, her face pale, all the blood drained away.
“John and I need to take the measure of this,” she said, her voice hushed. “There’s… there’s a war brewing. A big one. You’ve got to go with Rebel. Now. We’ll meet you in The Spill later, Seamus knows we’re coming.”
Seeing Mary, the unflappable seer, scared like that sent a jolt of pure ice through my veins. But what could I do? The pieces were in motion. First, pay my debts. Then ride with the wind. Small problems first; the rest will work themselves out. That’s what my old instructor used to drill into us.
“I’ll take the rifle now, but can you hold onto the other two crates for me? I can’t very well carry them.”
Benjamin answered before John could. “Of course, they’ll be as safe as houses with us. No one will touch ’em.”
I stood, and Mary rose too, pressing a quick, dry kiss to my cheek in farewell. John gave a firm, wordless nod, and Benjamin tipped his cap as I hefted the long, heavy case containing the T-5000 and stepped out of the safety and warmth of their wagon.
Rebel stood there like a pile of discarded scrap metal given life, a silent, hulking sentry. He smiled when it saw me, that hideous, mismatched face twisting into something almost friendly.
“We go-o Na-e now?”
I tried to hug him, my arms barely reaching around the massive girth of his torso. It was like embracing a brick wall, a warm, living, breathing wall, but immovable all the same. “Yes, we’ll go to Nate,” I said, my voice muffled against his rough hide. “But first, I have to deliver this” I patted the long rifle case, “to the Hammer Cogs. Otherwise, I’m a dead woman.”
Rebel’s large, expressive eyes clouded with concern. “Na-e not like -illy dead. Na-e likes -illy.” He stated it as simple, undeniable fact. “We -ake -he case to Hammer Cogs now?”
His simplicity was like a balm. In a world of complex betrayals, Rebel’s loyalties were absolute. “Yeah,” I sighed, a fraction of the day’s tension leaving my shoulders. “We need to see Georgy-Porgy and give him the case. Then we can go to Nate.”
We set off through the winding streets toward Sector 1. The thoroughfares were quieter than usual, the usual hustle subdued, though that was likely due to the seven-foot-tall, horned mutant walking beside me. A big fuck-off mutant was a powerful deterrent, clearing a path more effectively than any royal escort.
At the sector border, a small queue had formed. My stomach tightened. This was the moment of truth. Would the fake pass Nate had given me still work, or had its code already been flagged after the morning’s chaos?
The checkpoint was manned by a new, intimidating duo. A sheriff-type deputy, his face pinched and suspicious, sat ensconced in a metal-armoured wheelchair, a data-slate in his lap. Towering beside him was a hulking cyborg, its polished chrome and synthetic muscle glinting dully in the afternoon light. Its optical sensors glowed a steady, emotionless red.
“Listen, Rebel,” I whispered, pulling him into the shadow of a nearby awning. “You go first. Take the case.” I shoved the long, heavy T-5000 case into his arms. “Georgy-Porgy has to get this, you understand? If he doesn’t, I’m screwed. My life depends on it.”
Rebel bowed his great head, the gesture oddly formal. “I unders-and. Rebel not dumb. I give case to Georgy-Porgy.” His voice was a low, earnest rumble.
“Good. And if I get stopped,” I insisted, locking my eyes with his, “you keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Promise me, no fighting, no trying to be a hero. Just deliver the case.”
“Rebel promise,” he grunted, his expression solemn. “Rebel like -illy. Na-te like -illy.”
“Good. Now go ahead. Don’t let them see you with me. I’ll be right behind you.”
I watched him go, his immense form moving with a surprising lightness. He presented his own identification tag to the deputy. The man in the wheelchair glanced at it, then up at Rebel, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed nervously. He waved him through without a word. The cyborg didn’t even twitch. One down.
Now, only one woman stood between me and the guards. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. I palmed one of the Stims from my pocket, dry swallowing it in a quick, practised motion. I prayed the cocktail of alcohol from the wagon, and the sharp chemical jolt would steady my nerves, smooth the edges of my fear, and make me look harmless. Unassuming. Just another citizen trying to get home.
The woman passed through without issue. My turn.
I stepped forward, forcing a bland, tired smile onto my face as I handed over the plastic tag. The deputy took it, his fingers brushing mine with a distasteful flicker. He swiped it across the data-slate on his lap. I felt the cyborg’s red optical sensors sweep over me, a cold, scanning pressure. The slate beeped. Then it beeped again, a different, more urgent tone. The deputy frowned, tapped the screen, and swiped the tag again.
The scanner took its time, processing, querying some central database. My smile felt frozen in place. Then the screen flashed in bold, glaring red: STOLEN. INVALID.
My gaze flicked between the deputy’s suddenly triumphant, greedy face and the expressionless chrome visage of the cyborg. The cyborg took a single, heavy step forward, its hydraulic joints whirring softly. Shit.
“Must be a mistake!” I blurted, recoiling from its advance, putting genuine fear into my voice. “Don’t touch me!”
The cyborg halted immediately. Its voice, when it spoke, was a flat, synthesised monotone. “I am Unit One-Eleven. I am not programmed to initiate physical contact with or harm humans.”
A wheezing, phlegmy laugh came from the deputy’s wheelchair. “He’s not.” The polished revolver in his hand gleamed as he levelled it at my chest. The barrel looked enormous. “But I am. And I am programmed to detain thieves.”
My pulse roared in my ears, a tidal wave of panic. Think. Barter. Seduce. Survive. “Please,” I begged, letting my voice tremble. “It’s a misunderstanding, a system error! Look…” I fumbled in my pocket, pulling out the nearly full bottle of Stims. I held it out, watching his eyes. They locked onto the bottle with a hunger so profound it was almost sexual. Got you. He wanted them as badly as I needed them right now.
I tilted my head, letting my hair fall across my face, softening my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “What’s your name, Deputy?”
“Brian,” he rasped, his eyes still glued to the bottle.
Leaning in, close enough to smell his stale breath and the oil on his gun, I let my lips curve into a knowing smile. “Well, Brian… we could make a deal. You take these. All of them. You let me pass, and I’ll be… very friendly.” I let the promise hang in the air. His gaze darkened, flicking from the pills to my lips, to the neckline of my shirt, a potent cocktail of lust for the drugs and for the possibility of me. This was working. I was weaving him into my story.
I leaned closer still, brushing a soft, fleeting kiss against his stubbled cheek, simultaneously pressing the bottle of Stims into his free palm. His finger slackened on the trigger just slightly-
Then a voice, cold and precise as a scalpel, cut through the tense, intimate little scene I’d created.
“Deputy Brian. Well done.”
A figure stepped from the deep shadows of the guard-post doorway, where he must have been observing the entire exchange. He was tall, dressed in the impeccable, severe grey of the Church of the Machine’s lay clergy.
“Your diligence is noted. The Church of the Machine has ordered her immediate containment.” His eyes, devoid of any warmth, settled on me. “Your service to order has been logged and will be rewarded.”
The bottle of Stims fell from Brian’s suddenly limp hand, clattering to the cobblestones. All the colour drained from his face, his brief moment of power and avarice utterly extinguished by the Church’s cold authority. The game was over. I had lost.