B-spine Page 7

  “I go by the Reverend these days,” he says. “You know, it’s a gang thing.” She’s ready to crack wise until she sees all the kids with guns around him. He’s at work now. Things have to be done right.

  “So Reverend,” she says. “Can we talk?”

  He sweeps the heavy plastic door strips aside. “Step into my office…”

  The Grifters’ side of the warehouse is as bright and chaotic and noisy as the other side is dim and ordered and quiet. Blazing welding sparks fly, grease and blood and steam smells hang in the frigid air. Hammering mingles with life-support machine pings and everywhere, bags of plasma and oil drums in equal measure.

  “Chopping BurbBuggies,” she says.

  “That an accusation?” he asks suspiciously. “Your man Tim, he said you’d be cool with anything you saw.”

  “Just an observation,” she says. She sees mechanics sporting overalls from several local garages. She sees Pooky waddling his fat frame ahead to set up plastic furniture in a corner. She sees med teams in the surgical scrubs of at least three major hospitals. “What’s the scam?”

  “Classic old for new,” he grins. “These autoshop guys are freelance modding old BurbBuggy frames to look like this year’s models. My wetware crew are taking aged-out stock intended for factory decommission and transplanting some extra life back into them. Put them together and…”

  “…some fool in the Clave buys a BurbBuggy that’ll expire in six months.” She gets the idea.

  “I sleep easy with this one,” says the Reverend. “I mean, only Clave residents can afford BurbBuggies, and who cares if they throw cash my way?”

  “Got to agree with you on that one,” she says. “My mom’s never even rode the Tramtrax since she moved into a Clave. Get a wall between themselves and the rest of the Hub and Clavers think they’re better than us. But about why I’m here…”

  He motions for Kirsty to sit down. “Let’s chat first.”

  “I’d rather get down to business,” she says.

  “And I’d rather chat.” He nods to Pooky, who pours two coffees from a stainless steel flask. She holds it for warmth and smells the steam as the Reverend drinks his.

  “Coffee’s no good?” he asks.

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” she says. “I’m just particular about what I drink.”

  “Yeah, I heard about this,” he nods. “You’ve taken the wind turbines off of your roof and refitted your whole building with water tanks and stuff, ain’t you?”

  “Your junior-Gs been spying on me.”

  “They keep their eyes open. So why the new plumbing?”

  “Me and Tim have got a business idea. If it works for my block, maybe we can sell it wider.”

  The Reverend frowns. “What’s wrong with the water?”

  “Not much… yet,” she says. “The Hub’s been scrubbing the same supply for 40 years. Do you know how many heavy metals and chemicals can accumulate in that time?”

  He shakes his head. “Do you?”

  “Course I do,” she says, “That’s why I work Federal Environmental. And that’s why I’m not drinking your delicious-smelling coffee.”

  The Reverend grimaces and tips the remains of his cup onto the frozen concrete. “So you catch rain water in the tanks, is that it?”

  “I filter the municipal supply,” she says, “though fish.”

  “Fish?”

  “Bioengineered trout. They extract water-borne contaminants through their gills and leave the water clean and clear.”

  “Sold,” he says. “From now on, I’m only drinking your water.”

  “I’m sure we can arrange something,” she says. “And speaking of which…”

  “…not enough chat,” he says, firmly.

  She sighs. “Okay. So I guess you’re getting too old to be running the Grifters now. You’re twenty two soon, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” he nods. “Aged-out of the franchise by government legislation. ain’t that a bitch?”

  “Everyone’s got to grow up eventually. Plans?”

  “Figure I’ll go to college then start my own Urban Pacification Force,” he says. “Recycle all my senior Gs into a police force that actually works.”

  “It’s a good idea. PD round here aren’t worth the cost of the call. You ready to hear my problem yet?”

  He smiles. “Not quite time. What about you? You still hooked up with that Tim guy?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’ve never been hooked up with Tim. He works for me, that’s all.”

  “Oh come on,” says the Reverend, “he does more than that. He looks out for you all the time.”

  “Yeah, he’s got stones too,” says Pooky, standing a respectful distance back but no so far he can’t overhear. “PD leaked the clip of him capping that prowler. I seen it twenty times or more.”

  “PD didn’t leak that footage,” says Kirsty. “Tim sent it out so that everyone would think he was a tough guy. Seems like it worked, too.”

  “All the same,” says the Reverence, “Pooky’s right. The guy’s got heart. You should give him a shot.”

  “If I say I’ll consider it, can we move on?” She says.

  “In a minute,” he says. “You using that free gym membership?”

  “Three times a week if I can make it.”

  He smiles and turns to Pooky. “Hey Pooks, you know why I front Officer Powell at Manzoli’s Gym?”

  “Sure, Rev,” nods Pooky, “because she fucked up Dee Money.”

  The Rev winks at Kirsty. “And everyone knows that, right?”

  “Oh, for sure,” says the fat kid. “Dee Money grabbed her ass in a bar and she kung-fu kicked the shit out of him. He spent two weeks crying like a little bitch over two ribs cracked and a torn knee.”

  “Dee wanted you capped, you know that?” says the Reverend. “I told him to deal with it. I told him I thought yours was the smarter move.”

  “Yeah well,” she says. “It was a long time ago but I still appreciate the intervention. But can we please…”

  “…get to the point? Why not? What you after Officer Kirsty Powell? Name it.”

  “I need a gun, Reverend,” says Kirsty, relieved to be getting on with it.

  “Woah…” says Pooky.

  “A gun?” The Reverend thinks it over for a moment. “You’ve got a good job and no criminal record. You don’t need me. Go to a shop and buy a gun.”

  “I don’t want to wait a week for the paperwork,” she says. “I need to carry one away. Right now.”

  “If you’ve got problems, why not hire a couple of my Gs? They’re crazy for some action.”

  “Handgun,” she says, firmly. “Small, concealable. Spare clips. Box of ammunition.”

  “Well, Pooky,” sighs the Reverend. “Go get the lady a gun then…”

  Pooky waddles back with a Jericho nine millimeter, a US copy of an old Middle East design. Kirsty wants to hold it, to load it, to shove it into a pocket ready to pull out on Georgy but the Reverend teasingly dangles it by its trigger guard. “Do you know how to use this?” he asks.

  She rolls her eyes. “Oh please…” she says, reaching over for the pistol. She racks the Jericho’s slide so it locks back. “See? Empty chamber, empty clip.” She thumbs the release so the slide clacks forwards. “See? Cocked and ready.” She clicks the safety off, points it up and pulls the trigger. “See? Clicks when it’s empty, booms when it’s loaded. Easy.”

  The Reverend looks amused. “It’s not so easy if you’re looking to kill someone though.”

  “I’m not,” she says, “I just need a visible deterrent.”

  “All the same,” he says, “if you’ve got to shoot, you don’t have to go for the kill shot. You want my advice?”

  “Have I got a choice?”

  “Not really,” he says. “Everyone wears ballistic jackets these days, right? So get in tight, get in low and rack off three into their vest, low as you dare. It shocks a guy when he feels the hits and thinks he’s had his nuts shot off.”r />
  “You seem pretty certain about that,” she says.

  “Oh for sure,” he says, a sparkle in his eyes. “I’ve been wearing Kevlar-3 boxer shorts ever since some girl pulled that trick on me.” And she finally smiles and he finally gets his reward.

  They watch her leave on the security cameras, the Reverend zooming in as she strips off the padded freezer suit and walks up the concrete ramp wearing her fallball cap and works jacket and regulation black cycle trousers. “So what do you think, Pooks?” he asks.

  Pooky clicks his tongue and shrugs. “Kinda skinny for me, G. And way too old for my…”

  “Drop your dick, Pooky. I mean what do you think about Officer Powell needing a gat? Doesn’t that seem weird to you?”

  “Wouldn’t know about that, G,” shrugs Pooky. “Chicks get twisted up over the weirdest shit. Ex-boyfriend, stalker, hairdresser who done her wrong…”

  “But a Fed coming to me for protection…” The Reverend shakes his head. “When Feds are supposed to be untouchable.”

  “Like the President’s always saying on the newsfeeds, an attack on part of government is an attack on all government.”

  “Yeah, which makes me wonder whether I just done the right thing letting her go off with one of our handguns. She’ll be back, Pooks, I’d bet on it.” The Reverend shakes his head as they watch Kirsty cycle off towards Thurber Street and out of camera range. “Too old, you say?” he says.

  “Way past it,” nods his bodyguard. “She must be, what, twenty five? Twenty six?”

  Warren Oakley, the Reverend, cracks a grin. “Tell you what though Pooky, even you’ve got to appreciate a government agency that insists on lycra cycle shorts as uniform.”

  The fat kid throws a smile back that’s half gleaming enamel, half gleaming gold. “Oh, I hear you there, G. Now that’s a federal initiative everyone can agree with.”

  Saturday 25 January

  11:11 am

  CHARLENE WAS ONE of those hard-jawed, sour-faced types that Hemblen seemed to meet every time he had dealings with big corporations. Her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, her cheekbones defined by inexpertly applied slashes of make-up, she seemed born to wear her hospital blue coverall and matching baggy overshoes. Hemblen sighed and fiddled with his paper one-piece disposable suit. He looked again at the ID laminate that said he was a District 48 sales advisor for Meat4 Power. He forced himself to listen to Charlene’s annoying, nasal whine. She was talking about frozen semen.

  “…such is the value of the sperm that it’s stored off-site and, indeed, off-Hub,” she said. “Typically, gene stores are in remote, depopulated areas of the NAU – a costly but worthwhile precaution considering that each one acts as a library for the company’s entire copyrighted genome pool. The sperm is stored in glucose super-saturated with glycerin and the workers you see here are determining the health and mobility of each thawed batch.”

  Hemblen stood bunched up with his fifty-strong army, each one shivering under their paper suit. Along the walls of this bright, sterile, white room, rows of workers sat in insulated coveralls, their eyes fixed on microscopes, their hands reaching into sealed boxes through fixed rubber gloves.

  Charlene started to drone again but Hemblen was distracted by a poke in the back. “This woman’s killing us,” whispered his pointman, Jaime Calderon. “She’s boring us all to death.”

  “We need this tour,” Hemblen whispered back. “If Bostov are fielding bioweaponry, we need some idea of what we’ll be facing. If not, this is the only time we’ll see inside a facility like this before we start hitting them.”

  “Then at least ditch the bitch,” said Calderon, pushing Hemblen hard enough to break rank and stumble forwards, stopping Charlene mid-sentence.

  “You have a question?” she said.

  “Yeah… umm… about this tour,” he said, scratching his neck and inadvertently displacing the hair net he’d been told to wear. “I was thinking maybe one of my crew could do the walk through. Under your guidance, of course.”

  “This is a state-of-the-art wetware facility,” sniffed Charlene. “I hardly think its complexities can be understood by an outsider.”

  “Here’s the thing though, Charlene,” he said, putting an arm round her shoulder. “I’ve got a worker here with inside knowledge. Giroux front and center… you worked for M4, right?”

  Twenty years old, six months at Crash The Pad, Elisabeth Giroux stepped out of the crowd uncertainly. “I spent three years on the assembly line, right in this facility,” she said. “First year in the pens, two years in the chop shop.”

  Hemblen smiled at Giroux then gave Charlene a tight squeeze. “So Charlene, you lead on and Elisabeth here can walk us through. She can add, you know, local color to the tour…”

  Outside it was just a huge hangar, aluminum sidings with banks of mesh-fronted fans clustered on the roof. Inside, the insulated double doors formed an airlock, so the first everyone knew about the heat and the smell and the noise was when Charlene swiped her ID card and the inner door opened to assault their senses. At the front, a sullen Charlene and a nervous Elisabeth Giroux knew what to expect and braced themselves with a final deep breath. As they walked in, they just gagged a little. Ten of Crash The Pad bent over and puked their breakfasts.

  For all the noise and smell and humid body heat, they couldn’t see anything. To the far end was row on row of pens spaced apart by concrete floor channels that flowed with excrement. Overhead, fifteen feet up, mesh floor steel gantries crisscrossed the space and handlers peered down into pens, poking occasionally with electric prods on poles. The product itself was just a warm, animal heat in the air, just movement behind non-corrosive slats, just grunts and squeals that never let up.

  “These are the breeding pens,” shouted Elisabeth. “I worked here for a year when I was fifteen and got used to the smell fast. Each pen houses a breeder variant of an off-the-shelf wetware species. The breeders differ from the final product by having smaller limbs and a wider pelvic girdle. Each breeder is used through twelve birth cycles before it’s worn out. After that, they’re reprocessed into feed so nothing’s wasted…”

  “You see why anyone in this building are called wetworkers,” said Giroux, wiping the paper sleeve of her suit across her dripping face. The breeding pens had been warm but it was uncomfortably hot here, the humidity of the birthing pools filling the air with antiseptic-tinged steam. Crash The Pad lined up along the overhead gantry and peered down at hundreds of workers in the pools, all in heavy black waders. Every few minutes, a new crate splashed in and they dragged a struggling dark form out into the water. Every few minutes, others plucked smaller creatures out of the cloudy, steaming waters and handed them to workers waiting at the pool edges.

  “The breeders are transported over here when the production schedule dictates they’re due to drop,” said Elisabeth. “All births are sets of twins by design. Birth is chemically-induced to increase productivity and the wetworkers’ job is to get all live births to the next stage as quickly as they can. Production requires speed so stress trauma means maybe one in seven of the units is stillborn. That’s a problem because the assembly process relies on matched sibling pairs, so if one dies, the other’s no use any more. The dead and the unwanted twins are reprocessed into feed, so nothing’s wasted…”

  Hemblen watched Elisabeth as she looked down at a girl about the same age, grimacing as she stood up and held her aching back. He wondered what it felt like spending hour after hour, day after day in sodden clothing, wrestling wetware with hands wrinkled and bloated from hours of immersion in blood-streaked slime.

  “You don’t want to spend too long working the birthing pools,” said Elisabeth finally. “Soon as I could, I transferred into the growth stalls where the wetware’s suckled until they’re at production weight. If it’s okay with Charlene, we’ll skip them since they’re pretty much the same as the breeder pens. Let’s go straight to where all wetware ends up – the chopping malls…”

 
They shivered in refrigerated air again, the sweat from the birthing pools clinging wetly now to their clothing. Elisabeth’s teeth chattered as she spoke, her points punctuated by frosty breaths.

  “Eight months ago, this is where I worked,” she told the rest of Crash The Pad. “Here, I learned how to cut, remove, repair and revive. When I wanted out, I applied to hospitals and they just laughed at me. Then I thought harder and applied to Crash The Pad and Monty signed me straight up. If I ever have to stick my hands into any of you guys, remember that I learned how to be fast and sure right here.”

  The chopping mall was another long building, cold and tiled and running six identical assembly lines side by side, each an operating theater with the gurneys passing through on rails, each stage separated from the next by push-aside plastic strips and a constantly-hissing antiseptic mist. Elisabeth walked the whole length alongside the same gurney, wanting them to see the speed and precision needed but at the same time, not really wanting to look herself. She let them stare but kept on walking as she talked.

  “Breeders produce twins that, on leaving the growth stalls, are designated A-pup and B-pup. These are matched sibling pairs with identical tissue types but they’re not identical twins. Have a look for yourself – they look different. The A-pup has longer limbs while the B-pup’s got more muscle bulk. You’ll see why in a moment.”

  They plunged through a series of spray walls, wiping the sting out of their eyes each time to witness fresh acts of clinical butchery.

  “Under sedation, each pair is partially skinned in this bay. The A-pup has skin removed from the back and flanks while the B-pup has it pulled from the belly. You’ll see why soon.” Elisabeth knew the number of scalpel strokes required for each procedure and the time allowed. She kept on walking.