up like bright red alarms: Avery Cates, fucking moron. The lights went out. There were no windows in the lab, and the darkness was absolute. As adrenaline sizzled inside me, I let my legs just collapse under me, going limp, hitting the floor like a sack of shit. Two shots burped, the muzzle flashes bright as a strobe, showing me Jabali and Terries in a still life, all blue-gray.
I started crawling immediately, trying to be quiet. I had the floor plan of the lab in my head, mostly—what I’d seen, anyway. Not measured out, but I could bang against the walls. The floor smelled like disinfectant, and my breath was hot and sour around me as I pulled myself with my elbows, pushing with my knees. This was what I got for being fucking lazy and arrogant, put on the floor by a fucking civilian. This was what I got for hesitating.
“Mr. Cates,” I heard Terries say, and then Jabali’s gun exploded three times, fast, followed by shoes scraping on the floor and something heavy crashing over. Terries was learning fast that he wasn’t really in charge. He was also learning the golden rule of gunfights: things only counted as advantages if they didn’t make the situation worse for you, too.
I glanced up, eyes roving blindly, and saw the tiny glowing spots of the elevator buttons, very close. I fixed my position in my mind and started crawling toward it.
“You should know,” Terries said, his actor’s voice coming from behind me and to my right, where the table and screens were, “that I have a direct link to the SSF, and they are on their way. The alarm was tripped when we entered the lab.”
I believed this. He was director of something or other, after all, someone who’d actually met Undersecretary Ruberto and probably the all-smiling, all-bullshitting avatar of Dick Marin. He’d had the juice to dispatch three psionics to the Library to gather me up; the cops probably did come when he called. At least, I was sure they did when there wasn’t a general emergency demanding their attention.
I’ve killed my share of System Pigs, I wanted to say back. If you mentioned my name I’m sure they’re fighting over who gets to respond. I concentrated on not breathing too loudly and covering ground. When the glowing buttons loomed up directly above me, I put my back against the doors, forcing my burning lungs to work slowly, and reached up, seeking the call button. When I found it I pressed it gently. It lit up softly, and I flinched; against System Cops or anyone with talent, that would have been enough to bring a hail of gunfire my way, and I cursed myself silently for being a rusty asshole.
Nothing happened and I relaxed, pretty sure Terries hadn’t noticed. Behind me, I felt the nearly silent humming operation of the elevator, and I held my gun firmly in my hand, aimed up at the ceiling, moving my eyes this way and that.
In the System—at least the parts of it that I lived in—all that mattered, all you really had, was your reputation. Two men went into a box, and one got killed and one climbed out, it doesn’t matter if you were bloodied and beaten. It doesn’t matter if you begged and bribed, wept and cursed inside that box—all that matters is that you lived and he died. That’s all anyone ever remembered. And it didn’t matter if you staggered home and climbed into a bottle, wept some more, and had the fucking shivers for a week straight—that shit didn’t matter. He was dead and you’d survived, and thus you had a rep.
So far, everyone who’d ever come up against me had died. Sometimes it had been pure luck—a stumble, a distraction, a lucky shot. Sometimes I’d been able to cheat, get some inside information. Usually it was just that I had taken some time to recon my surroundings and knew where the hiding spots were, the geography of the place. None of that mattered to the rep: on the streets I was just Avery Cates, who’d never been taken down, who’d left a long trail of dead bodies in his wake. And
I started crawling immediately, trying to be quiet. I had the floor plan of the lab in my head, mostly—what I’d seen, anyway. Not measured out, but I could bang against the walls. The floor smelled like disinfectant, and my breath was hot and sour around me as I pulled myself with my elbows, pushing with my knees. This was what I got for being fucking lazy and arrogant, put on the floor by a fucking civilian. This was what I got for hesitating.
“Mr. Cates,” I heard Terries say, and then Jabali’s gun exploded three times, fast, followed by shoes scraping on the floor and something heavy crashing over. Terries was learning fast that he wasn’t really in charge. He was also learning the golden rule of gunfights: things only counted as advantages if they didn’t make the situation worse for you, too.
I glanced up, eyes roving blindly, and saw the tiny glowing spots of the elevator buttons, very close. I fixed my position in my mind and started crawling toward it.
“You should know,” Terries said, his actor’s voice coming from behind me and to my right, where the table and screens were, “that I have a direct link to the SSF, and they are on their way. The alarm was tripped when we entered the lab.”
I believed this. He was director of something or other, after all, someone who’d actually met Undersecretary Ruberto and probably the all-smiling, all-bullshitting avatar of Dick Marin. He’d had the juice to dispatch three psionics to the Library to gather me up; the cops probably did come when he called. At least, I was sure they did when there wasn’t a general emergency demanding their attention.
I’ve killed my share of System Pigs, I wanted to say back. If you mentioned my name I’m sure they’re fighting over who gets to respond. I concentrated on not breathing too loudly and covering ground. When the glowing buttons loomed up directly above me, I put my back against the doors, forcing my burning lungs to work slowly, and reached up, seeking the call button. When I found it I pressed it gently. It lit up softly, and I flinched; against System Cops or anyone with talent, that would have been enough to bring a hail of gunfire my way, and I cursed myself silently for being a rusty asshole.
Nothing happened and I relaxed, pretty sure Terries hadn’t noticed. Behind me, I felt the nearly silent humming operation of the elevator, and I held my gun firmly in my hand, aimed up at the ceiling, moving my eyes this way and that.
In the System—at least the parts of it that I lived in—all that mattered, all you really had, was your reputation. Two men went into a box, and one got killed and one climbed out, it doesn’t matter if you were bloodied and beaten. It doesn’t matter if you begged and bribed, wept and cursed inside that box—all that matters is that you lived and he died. That’s all anyone ever remembered. And it didn’t matter if you staggered home and climbed into a bottle, wept some more, and had the fucking shivers for a week straight—that shit didn’t matter. He was dead and you’d survived, and thus you had a rep.
So far, everyone who’d ever come up against me had died. Sometimes it had been pure luck—a stumble, a distraction, a lucky shot. Sometimes I’d been able to cheat, get some inside information. Usually it was just that I had taken some time to recon my surroundings and knew where the hiding spots were, the geography of the place. None of that mattered to the rep: on the streets I was just Avery Cates, who’d never been taken down, who’d left a long trail of dead bodies in his wake. And
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