21 – On the Table

  “So, Grando says I’m supposed to make sure Pete does what you need,” Orin remarked as they embarked on their walk to the gym-clinic.

  Hector glanced at him sideways. “He told me he’d call Pete.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess when I went into his office he decided it was just easier to tell me to handle it. Don’t worry, I’ve dealt with him a hundred times.”

  Hector grunted.

  “Don’t talk a lot, huh? Oh—” He paused, interrupting himself as he stooped to pick up a half-spent chem stick. “Hah! I’ll give this to one of the boys. Anyway, Grando told me to keep that stuff about your, uh, history to myself. Don’t worry about that, neither. I know how to keep a secret.”

  Hector glanced at the much-larger man, noting the serious expression under his heavy brow. “You have an aura system.” It wasn’t a question; Grando had told him, but he could also feel the buzzing thrum of a nearby aura pool. It wasn’t particularly strong, but it was enough to notice.

  “Heh, yeah—only level four, but it’s won me a few fights in the silo.”

  “Archetype?”

  “Ah, take a guess.” He paused for just a breath and then said, “Brute.”

  Hector knew the Brute archetype; it was one of the more common ones. Being truthful, he said, “Not bad to start.”

  “That’s what Demon says.” He glanced at Hector and added, “He’s a fighter who trains at Pete’s.”

  Hector nodded. He knew, of course, but he didn’t need to tell Orin his life story.

  “Don’t suppose you want to tell me—”

  Hector shook his head, interrupting. “I won’t talk about my system.” When Orin grunted, gathered some phlegm in his throat, and spat to the side, Hector added, “Don’t get raw about it. I’ll give you some tips on yours.”

  That seemed to mollify the big man, and he nodded. “Thanks. Maybe we could train sometime?”

  Hector figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea to spend some time in the gym while he earned his bits and enough potentia to move on, so he nodded. “Sure.”

  Orin shivered and pulled his coat’s collar up, hunching down against the wind as they turned the last corner and Pete’s came into view. “Just let me do the talking with Pete.”

  Hector didn’t respond; the less talking he did, the better, as far as he was concerned. Though he had to admit that chatting with Orin had taken his mind off the aches in his body. He really ought to get some healing nanites, but he needed to be frugal with his last few bits, and he was hoping the doc might give him an infusion for the surgeries he’d need to perform, minor though they may be.

  The big goon pushed his way through the crowd near the bay door, and Hector, head-down, followed him through. A wash of hot air blowing from an industrial heater hanging over the door was a welcome relief from the cold outside. He kept close to Orin, walking in his wake, careful to swallow the pain in his joints and muscles so his gait didn’t give off any sign of weakness; he could feel the hungry stares of people looking to fight—or maybe he couldn’t and he was having some kind of aura-induced psycho-memory.

  Whatever the case, he followed the big enforcer through the space without looking at anyone—not because he was scared or weak, but because he didn’t feel like wasting time or making a scene by beating anyone to a pulp. Orin pushed a call button on the interior clinic door and, after a moment, it buzzed and a woman’s voice, distorted by the tinny speaker, said, “Take a number.”

  “It’s Orin. Grando sent me.”

  For a few seconds nothing happened, then the speaker buzzed again and the door lock clicked. Orin pulled it open and jerked his chin, indicating to Hector that he should pass through. An electric tingle of paranoia ran up and down his spine. Was he about to walk into a trap? Had Grando called Pete after all? Was the chop-doc supposed to make him disappear?

  Shoving the thoughts down, he stepped through the door into a hallway that might have been white once. The walls and floor were almost gray and streaked with stains that industrial cleaners could sanitize but not make disappear. He put his back to one of the walls and turned to watch Orin step through the door. It swung shut behind him with a clang, muting the noise of the gym. “Come on,” he said, leading the way toward the rust-pitted, gray-metal door at the end of the hall.

  That door opened outward, so he just pushed the bar and rolled through without holding it for Hector. The fact that he walked through first calmed Hector’s nerves, and he thought about that. Why would the manner in which an escort passed through doors matter? He supposed that, if he were leading someone into a trap, he’d want to stay behind him to cut off any retreat.

  He followed Orin through, where he found a small reception with a handful of empty chairs and a small, punk-styled woman sitting behind a desk. Orin was already speaking to her: “…needs a quick procedure or two, and, yeah, we need it to happen now.” As the young woman—a receptionist, Hector assumed—turned her bright violet eyes toward Hector, he added, “And the doc owes me money.”

  The receptionist’s eyes were striking in their clarity, and he figured they were high-end augs to pull off such a range of shades with delicate, realistic iris structures highlighted with backlit neon tones. Her lips were painted black, and so were the hollows of her eyes, and her skin was so pale that it gave her an almost skull-like appearance. Glossy black feathers where her hair ought to be completed the image.

  A face that would be hard to forget.

  “What’s your name?”

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  “I told you—” Orin started to say, but Hector responded, cutting him off.

  “Hector.”

  “What exactly do you need done?”

  “Eye and ear augments.” Hector lifted the bottom of his hoodie so he could access his coat pockets. While the girl and Orin watched, he dug out the two boxes and set them on her desk. “The retinas already have my biometrics installed on the data chip.”

  She scooped up the boxes, frowned, first at Hector then at Orin, and stood. “I’ll check with Pete.” She didn’t wait for a response, but slipped through the door behind her, closing it with a definitive click.

  “She took my stuff,” Hector said, narrowing his eyes as he glared at Orin.

  “She’s always like that. Don’t worry, though. You’re with Grando. Nobody here gonna mess with you.” The big enforcer turned to sit in one of the empty chairs.

  Suddenly feeling too warm, Hector unwound his scarf and pulled the hoodie off, tossing them onto the empty chair beside Orin. “Interesting hair.”

  Orin snorted. “You can say that. Name’s Raven, but maybe it’s just a nickname she took too seriously.”

  “She just a receptionist?”

  “Nah, does all kinds of stuff for the doc. He’s got quite an operation here—don’t think there’s room for someone who’s not flexible.”

  Hector unbuttoned his coat, letting some air hit his sweat-soaked shirt.

  “You look like you went through some shit today, huh?”

  “Just pushed myself a little too hard.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Grando said I could use his credit.” He didn’t consider it much of a lie, more like bending the truth. Grando had said he’d tell Pete to cooperate. Besides, Grando could take it out of his next cut of…whatever.

  Orin arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Yeah, no worries, man. I’ll straighten Pete out.”

  The door opened and Raven stood there, her makeup styling at odds with her stained blue scrubs. “Come on. He’s adjusting the autosurgeon, but he’ll talk to you.”

  Hector walked past her, but paused when he saw a longer hallway than he’d expected and more than a handful of different doors. He stood with his back to the wall and waited for Orin to shuffle past the young woman. “Thanks, doll.”

  “Sure, Orin. I’m still waiting for an answer about that thing we talked about.”

  He paused and looked at her, tilting his head in thought. After a moment, his eyes widened and he said, “Oh! About your sister’s place? Shit! I was half drunk when we had that conversation—spaced it. Uh, what’s the deal again? Someone’s shaking her down?”

  “Taurus Crew, and I told them that building was part of Grando’s territory, but they weren’t buying it. My sister’s afraid to leave her place—has to pay for grocery deliveries. Thank the Angel she works remotely, but still…” She trailed off, shrugging.

  “What’s the address?” Before she could answer, Orin shook his head and held up a finger. “On second thought, write it down, would ya? I don’t want to forget about this again. Don’t worry, though. I’ll set ’em straight.”

  Raven grabbed his arm, her smile spreading to expose her teeth. “Thank you!”

  “Hey, it’s my job.” He shrugged, but Hector could see he liked the attention. He glanced at Hector as though he could feel the weight of his gaze, then cleared his throat and started walking. “Just gimme that address and your sister’s name.”

  “I will!”

  Hector followed Orin to the third door on the left and then stepped through into a typical chop-doc surgical space—plasteel walls and a floor with two drains. A stainless autosurgeon table sat at the center. It was a beat-up, older-looking model—which meant it still looked new to Hector. Even so, he could see it was aged by the well-worn corners, the many dents and dings, and the faded paint on the housing that covered the dozen folding, articulated robot arms.

  Pete was there, as Raven had promised, behind the autosurgeon with a soldering iron. Hector couldn’t see the tool, but he could smell the acrid tang of hot flux in the air. “Hey, gentlemen,” the fight boss said. “Gimme just a few. Raven told me what you’re after. Shouldn’t be a problem. Slow night for the clinic.”

  “And?” Orin prodded.

  “And I’ll get you your bits, my friend. I had them at the fight, but you were a no-show.”

  Orin chuckled, nudging Hector with his elbow. “I was a little tied up.”

  “There’s just the fee for the surgery to discuss,” Pete said, leaning close to the machine as a thin trail of soldering smoke drifted past his face.

  “Grando wants you to throw it on his tab,” Orin replied.

  “Hmm. Well, would you mind letting him know that his tab is starting to reach business start-up levels?”

  “You think your business would be where it is without Grando?”

  Hector looked from Pete to Orin, surprised the goon was standing up for his boss. Orin was a big, plodding fellow with a face that only a mother could love, but there was a gleam of intelligence in those bright blue eyes.

  Pete must have heard something in Orin’s tone because he paused his work and looked up, peering through the haze of flux smoke at the bruiser. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. I just, you know, could use that money to expand my operations a little.” He nodded to the autosurgeon. “As you can see, I need some upgrades.”

  Orin grunted. “I’ll pass it along.”

  Pete backed away from the machine, slapped the housing shut, and then pressed his thumb against the crystal-glass operator’s display. The surgical bed vibrated as it came to life and then settled down to a steady hum. “She’s alive!” He gestured to the stainless bed. “Hop on up, Hector. I’ll get your augments ready.”

  Hector shrugged out of his jacket and, in the process, realized he’d left his hoodie and scarf out in the waiting room. He wondered if they’d still be there when he finished, but he didn’t care enough to go out and get them. He tossed his synth-leather jacket onto an empty cart, then hopped atop the surgical bed, avoiding the drain grate near the bottom where he could still see bits of dried brown matter clinging to the holes.

  “Hmm. Not bad tech here,” Pete said, unpacking his new augs on a different cart. “Raven said something about the biometrics?”

  “They’re on the chip.”

  “I’m supposed to—”

  “Just use what’s on the chip,” Orin said.

  “Right.” Pete chuckled ruefully, shaking his head.

  “Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, Hector. I always provide a nanite injection for general healing and infection control, so you’ll be ready to fight again in a day or two.”

  That was music to Hector’s ears, and he lay back on the cold metal table, feeling some tension drain out of his neck and shoulders. “No anesthesia.”

  “Won’t need it for this. I’ll use a short-term paralytic on your eyes, though. Can’t have you darting them around while the autosurgeon does its thing.”

  Hector didn’t reply. He’d been through similar procedures so many times that the memories had melded into some kind of generic conglomeration. If he really thought about it, though, he could remember individual surgeries—different docs, different body parts, different amounts of agony, stress, and fear. Fear.

  He’d been afraid when his heart had been pierced by a gauss round. That happened back on Earth, before he’d jumped skins for the first time; the fear of death had been real. Still, his squad medic had plugged an external pump into his neck and kept his brain alive long enough for a trauma evac.

  “…that all right with you, Hec?”

  Hector glanced at the doctor, trying to recall his earlier words. Something about getting started with the eyes. “Yeah.”

  “Okay, program’s loaded; here we go. Please close your eyes and hold still until the injections take effect. Just gonna count you down so you can brace for the needles. They’re really fine-gauge. Probably won’t feel ’em. Five…four—”

  “Just do it,” Hector growled.

  “Right. One.” Something clicked, whirred, and then twin needles stabbed Hector at the corners of his eyes. The doc hadn’t lied; the needles didn’t hurt, but the paralytic was like fire pouring into his skin. He held still, though. It was almost comforting, really, that they hadn’t come up with anything better in the last two hundred years. Was that it, or did soldiers and low-life thugs have that in common—cheap, painful surgery paralytics? The thought made him smile.

  “Jesus,” Pete said. “First guy I’ve seen smile when I hit ’em with the Paralyte.”