Jay Posey - Three

The final gun hand, however, strutted about as though he was the spokesman for the group, broadcasting his opinions on how business should be undertaken, particularly on account of what had befallen several of his associates in a previous matter.

“Sent ’em tied up NAKED. My pardon, ma’am, but it’s true, that’s what they did, and it’s not right. It’s not right to shame good men for trying to uphold some sense of honor and justice in this world.

“And then this fella here. Walking in like he’s some kind of prince with all his finery, and his entourage, thinking he’s going to presume upon our charity to see him through to his destination. Well it just makes me mad, ma’am, to see disrespectful youth speak to you in that manner.”

The Bonefolder sipped her tea, as per usual. Up. Sip. Blink. Hold. Down. Adjust.

“I’m sayin’ we’re done with these types. This isn’t a shuttle service we’re runnin’ here, this is a privately-owned transit system now, no matter what the old laws say. The Bonefolder saw to it that the line got back to running, and it’s hers to do with as she sees fit. And coming in here with that attitude and that smile, like you’re going to charm something from us? From her ? Son, I tell you what I know, if you don’t start showing some respect in here, I’ll take you out in the street myself and let your friends learn a real good lesson in manners at your expense.”

“Thank you, Domino, we do appreciate your passion and concern, if not your manner of speech.”

“Yes, ma’am. I just don’t like ’em, ma’am.”

“Yes, thank you, child Domino,” she said with a gentleness that felt somehow firm as a slap. She adjusted herself upon her chair, and addressed the visitor. “We’re afraid this Mr Walker has caused some consternation amongst some of our associates. We cannot guarantee that Mr Walker and his friends will in fact go to Morningside. As long as you understand that our agreement is based solely upon transportation to the destination, with no guarantee whatsoever that Mr Walker will be found there, we believe we can afford you and your colleagues passage by way of our train. Under certain, highly profitable business arrangements.”

“Certainly, of course,” Asher said, leaning forward to rest his hands on the back of the chair he’d been offered. He let his eyes casually sweep the upstairs balconies. No surprises there. Good. Had to be sure, since he was the only one they’d let inside. “I understand that you’d like to maximize your potential upside with this arrangement. I’m just not certain that the quoted price is optimal.”

The loudmouth started up again. “Whatever price that gets you on our train is optimal, partner. Every time she goes out, that’s a risk on us. And I haven’t heard nothin’ yet out of your mouth that says what you can do for us.”

Asher scanned the room with his easy smile. “You know, you’re right, sir. I’m sorry, I have been rude. My apologies.” He bowed just the right amount to seem gracious, and not at all condescending. “Please allow me to elaborate on exactly what is that I can do for you.”

Asher smiled warmly. Waited. The Bonefolder smiled slightly. He watched her intently. Smile. Wait. She raised her tea cup. Took a sip. Her eyes closed.

And Asher revealed himself, awesome and terrible. The bartender was first, as Asher stretched out across the electromagnetic mist and seized him through the cortex, driving a single command through his nervous system like an iron spike.

Cease.

Like a river suddenly dammed, the bartender’s brain simply stopped responding and left him a body with no mind.

The Big One was the easiest. Asher hacked his adrenals, and dumped them all at once while activating the man’s chem stores. There was a dull thump inside the Big One as his heart exploded.

The two gunmen at the table got a generic treatment, deserved for their laziness. Asher pierced their minds and locked their muscles into one-hundred percent contraction, simultaneously cutting off their breathing, their heartbeats, and any chance either of them had to scream.

And finally, the mouthy gun hand. Asher penetrated the man’s mind and crackled its own signals across it, throwing the gun hand into a very specific seizure: one which would guarantee he would choke to death on his own tongue.

The Bonefolder opened her eyes from her long blink. Set the cup on the table. Adjusted the handle. Oblivious that the men who were only now beginning to fall around her were already dead.

The Strand.

Of course Cass had heard of it, seen scans of it, even projected to it once. But there at its very edge, confronted by the sheer, inexorable scale of it all… she found herself sitting without being able to recall ever having sat. She didn’t know how it had come to be known as the Strand, who had first named it so, but seeing it now in person made it seem there was no other name it could be called. It was as if some great ocean of destruction had rolled its unyielding tide through the city and then, upon its terrible recession, left behind only a shoreline of concrete sand and crushed humanity.

Even Three stood silent, despite the urgent pace he’d set before. He stared out over the vast, broken plain with tears in his eyes. Wren moved to Three’s side, and the man placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Cass scanned the horizon, its gray, fractured features rounded by wind and rain and time. It seemed endless. And impossible to cross. She understood now why Three had taken the risk of Greenstone and the Bonefolder. Without the train, the chances of making it to Morningside seemed farther away than ever before.

“We’ll never make it,” she heard herself say.

“It’s not impossible,” Three answered. “Difficult, but not impossible. I’ve done it before.”

She glanced up at him. He was still surveying the terrain, but his eyes were clear now. Purposeful. Already he was looking for solutions. And, she hoped, finding them.

“Forty miles across, if you keep straight. Miss your mark, it can get a whole lot farther. I’ve heard of Runners who’ve made it through in under five hours. But I’ve heard of a lot more who don’t make it through at all.

“Out there, there are no wayhouses. No maglevs. No functioning water systems. The Weir own the Strand, and there’s no place to hide.”

“Which part of that was supposed to be the good news?”

“Just want you to understand what we’re about to do. If there’s any good news, it’s that the Weir don’t much expect to find people in their stomping grounds. If we move quickly, keep quiet, and get lucky, we’ll make it.”

“I’ve never known you to trust much to luck,” Cass said.

He turned and went down on a knee, facing them both. “They track you by your signal. That’s what they see. In a way, it’s what they smell. Everywhere you go, you leave a trail they can follow. And will follow.”

Looking at Three there, kneeling by the edge of the Strand, it suddenly clicked for Cass. She’d come to suspect it based on fragments she’d picked up: Wren’s comments about not being able to feel Three, about him not being real, the strange markings and scars on his back, the ease with which he seemed to be able to take life. Now she understood how he could walk the open, day or night.

“But they can’t track you,” she said. “Because you’re disconnected.”

It was punishment of the cruelest sort, usually reserved for repeat offenders or, as in Dagon’s case, those deemed too dangerous to remain part of society. They called it sanitizing. Though, these days, the State wasn’t necessarily the only one with the power to unplug someone. Not that there was much of a State left.