Jay Posey - Three

Cass followed as closely as she dared without stepping on Three’s heels. Fought to keep her eyes focused forward, her face grim, as if she’d been through these streets a hundred times before. For the first time, she had seen Three rattled, and that terrified her. Was it this place? Or had something happened with the guards that she’d missed? There was an electric edge, a lightning crackle around the fringes of each breath, that told her danger was on their heels here. Maybe all around.

She realized her fists were balled tight. Forced them to relax. She risked a glance around. It was different here. The buildings, the layout, the people. Greenstone was uniquely itself in the midst of a sea of sameness outside its walls. At its base, it was purely institutional: a cold gray concrete uniformity. Built for function. For control. Regular angles. Squares. Boxes. Bunkers.

And yet, life here had sprung up wild; lavish decorations covered every front, every window. Lights, paint, scrap welded into art. Some garish, some elegant, some shocking, some breathtaking. As if the populace, forced into a sterilized conformity, had rebelled in explosive individual expression. Celebrated it, even.

The people themselves, far from the rough-hewn and downtrodden survivors she’d expected, sported outfits of bizarre experiments in fashion. Tech as clothing. Faces tattooed into digital oblivion. A woman covered from head to toe in a color-swirling translucent plastifabric garment stood in apparent conversation with a small Asian man, naked from the waist up, who had circuitry embedded just beneath the surface of his skin in patterns like veins and arteries, giving the impression that if cut, he might bleed light.

Three strode purposely through the crowds, which were much denser than Cass had anticipated. It took nearly ten minutes to reach their destination. And to Cass’s eyes, the destination didn’t seem to be worth the walk. It was a narrow building that looked like it’d been wedged between the two on either side well after the other two had been built. The door was blacked out, and only about three-quarters the width of a normal door, and the front of the building was painted in a Japanese cartoon-styled motif, with a wild-looking samurai; shirtless, a piece of straw dangling from his lip, sword held high above his head, and a bottle of a well-known brand of Irish whisky dangling from his belt. A hand-written sign lay propped against the wall, apparently having fallen off the door and never repaired. Scrawled in red paint both in neo-kanji and common English, it read “Samurai McGann”. A dull, pulsing beat sounded from within.

Three paused, turned, and gently pushed Wren into her care.

“Keep to yourself in here. Clientele’s a mixed bag.”

“There isn’t a better place we can go?”

“Lotta connections run through here,” he answered, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, added, “And I need a drink.”

He pushed open the door, and the droning sound grew louder. Cass realized it was some fusion-style of music. And she wasn’t sure she liked it. She picked Wren up, and followed Three inside.

If Three had been worried about Cass getting them noticed, the fear seemed unfounded. As far as she could tell, no one in the place had even looked their way when they came in. The Samurai McGann was pretty clearly a bar of some kind, but beyond that it was tough to judge what exactly its business amounted to. There were tables, mostly occupied though not full, as well as hard-wire jacks and terminals for various transactions of questionable nature. Three found a booth off to one side of the place, and directed Cass and Wren in that direction. As she removed her pack and Wren’s and stashed them in a pile, Cass kept an eye on Three. He approached the bartender, had a brief conversation, and then came over and joined them. He slung his heavy pack onto the bench and dropped into the seat across from Cass.

“Where’s your drink?” she asked.

“Later. Gonna try to take care of some business first.”

Cass cradled Wren in her lap. His eyes were wide, drinking in the fresh assault on his senses, but he seemed to be in good spirits.

“Got any food here?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know you want it. Let’s see how things shake out first.”

Three was just turning to look back over his shoulder when there was a flash of motion. Three’s head went down, the muzzle of a jittergun pressed hard into the side of his face. He went still, and Cass’s heart stopped cold in her chest. It’d happened so fast.

Then, there was laughing. And the man with the gun was sitting at the table, grinning like a skull, and Three was half-smiling, shaking his head.

“Gettin’ slow in your advanced age there, Numbers,” the man said, apparently amused. “You get my letter?”

“No, Twitch. Still hasn’t come yet.”

An old, running joke apparently.

“Family man now?”

“Cass, her son Wren,” he said, motioning to each in turn. “Friends of mine.”

The man extended his hand, the stubby jittergun now safely in a holster he wore high on his belly, right next to its twin.

“jCharles,” he said. He was tall, thin, with sharp features. Quick movements, but precise, like he could start and stop at the exact point he wanted to, but move at top speed in between. Almost mechanical. Cass couldn’t help but wonder just how fast he could draw those jitters.

Cass shook his hand, as did Wren when it was offered.

“How long you in for?” jCharles asked, apparently to Three, though he was still looking at Cass.

“No longer than we have to be. We need some things.”

jCharles nodded, checked over his shoulder to the bar, and made some vague motions. The bartender nodded. jCharles turned back to Cass, smiled.

“My place. If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve cleaned up a bit.”

“What’s the word on q-dose?” Three asked.

Straight to business.

“Tabs or jector?”

Three looked to Cass, prompted her.

“Tabs.”

“No worries. Couple hours maybe.”

“And how about these?”

Three placed a closed fist on the table, opened it slowly. jCharles swept whatever it was into his hand, swift as a magician. He smiled and winked at Cass again.

“ Spatz ¸ brother. Thirties?” he said. Then grimaced, glanced at Wren, then back at Cass. “Sorry, I have a filthy mouth.”

Then to Three, slipping the item back to him. Cass figured it was an empty shell from Three’s pistol.

“I don’t think I can help you there. Eighteens I can do pretty easy. Maybe a couple twenty-fours at best.”

Three nodded, seemed to be expecting that. Cass suddenly felt a pang of guilt over her reckless firing outside the Vault, and wondered just how precious a resource she’d wasted. Far more than she’d realized, that much was certain.

The bartender swung by and dropped off four beverages. Three small mugs of a golden-brown viscous liquid for the adults, and something aqua and fizzy for Wren. It smelled vaguely fruity.

“Can I try it?” he whispered.

“Sure, baby.”

Wren leaned forward, and sipped out of the straw. His eyes lit up almost immediately.

“Good, huh?” jCharles said. “Made that one up myself.”

Wren nodded, and then sat back against Cass. Shyness setting in. Probably exhausted.

“And the big favor,” Three said.

“Yeah?”

“We need on the train.”

jCharles actually looked stunned by that. He let out a low whistle. “That’s quite a shopping list, brother.” He shook his head. “I can try to arrange a meeting, but that’s about the best I can do. Afraid you’re gonna have to talk to Bonefolder yourself for that one.”

“You can arrange it?”