'Becoming X' - Part one
Frank/Gerard Rating: R
Part One / Part two / Part three
She never smiles.
Frank finds that women don’t often smile at him anymore, unless they’re getting slipped something for the pleasure. But this one is supposed to be welcoming, no strings attached. It’s her purpose. It should at least look genuine, rather than an act she’s obliged to perform.
The ferry drifts closer.
He never paid her much attention when there was such a thing as daylight. Maybe it’s just the shadows that make her seem so miserable. She looks like Alice Cooper, leaking rust from her eyes. Some vandals broke onto the island last year and sprayed her crown with dark paint. It dripped a little before it dried, scarring her broad forehead.
A piece of debris hits the bumper fitted to the bow. It splits into half a dozen fragments that quickly sink. Frank salutes it, downing some of his whiskey. The brown bag wrapped around the small bottle crumples as he squeezes it in his palm. He looks up again. “Your arm doesn’t ever get tired like that?”
She doesn’t answer him.
Another piece of floating trash hits the ferry; something a little more robust. The deck shakes.
Frank wipes split alcohol away from the front of his coat. “I should ask for a refund, huh? Fucking bumpy-ass ride making me waste most of my booze.”
“She doesn’t talk, you know.”
The cop slides along beside him, gripping the barrier with his glove. The surface is grimy and wet but Frank leans against it, blocking his body off and keeping his gaze elsewhere. “I had noticed.” He can feel the wash of heat from the officer’s grin and he’s pretty sure he can sense another lurking behind him. The bastards always come in twos.
“Been to the soup kitchen, have we?”
“Having a drink isn’t a crime. I got receipts.”
The cop laughs, loose and gentle. “Of course. Of course it isn’t a crime, Frankie. I’m glad that you seem have such a good grip these days on what’s legal, and more importantly, what isn’t. I guess lepers can change their spots.”
“Fuck off.”
Frank regrets this as soon as his arm is pulled around to make friends with his spine. The bottle he’s holding falls and smashes on impact.
“Easy now, boy,” the officer orders, “You were doing so well there for a moment.”
Frank relaxes -- his only real option in this scenario, unless of course he wants to be booked.
The pain subsides as he’s released and his body is allowed to return to its natural angle.
“Might want to make sure that mess is cleaned up, since you’re such an upstanding citizen now.” The cop wipes some of the drizzly rain from Frank’s shoulder as he pats it, and starts to walk away slowly. “Don’t want a kid slipping and falling down on all that glass. Criminal negligence.”
A kid. Here. This is almost funny; just about a decent joke. Cops have often been a source of humor for Frank, but not because they’ve intended to be. Maybe they’re changing the training.
“Oh Frank, I almost forgot to say, when you leave the turnstiles, don’t run off. One of our co-workers wants a chat with you over at the station. Consider us your escorts.”
Frank curses low enough so that they won’t hear it, not that he hadn’t already guessed this was coming. Hopefully it’ll be the usual catch and release job. Their footsteps lead off the damp deck, echoing down the spiral staircase.
“I thought you were supposed to give guys like me a chance.”
She doesn’t answer. Her light’s out: smashed and hanging from the torch base by a few lines of wire and warped iron.
The ferry steadily makes its way into the dock.
*
“Iero. Just the stain I wanted to find in my zone tonight.”
Frank is pushed down into a chair. It’s creaky: unstable and tilting from side to side as he shifts his weight about. Whoever was given the job of sawing half an inch from one of the legs obviously got a little too eager. Comforting to know the force is still employing grade-A retards. “I wasn’t anywhere near your sector.”
“You are now.”
Frank adjusts his tie; pops open his coat buttons, looking around. “What, no half screwed in bulb and broken thermostat? I’m disappointed.”
“We don’t need those old tricks with the old dogs, Frank. We save them for the new meat. Dinosaurs like you are so rare these days it’s refreshing to get a respite from the usual theatrics.”
“Breaks, not breakthroughs. Good to see things haven’t really progressed here, apart from the size of your collective waistlines.” This earns Frank a firm slap across the back of the skull.
“Careful, Danny. Frank can have his donut jokes, if that’s what swells his dick. I’m more interested in the things he’s not so keen to spit out.”
Frank rubs his scalp, inspecting his fingers for blood.
“Memory can be a fickle thing. One day, something you completely failed to remember just slips back in there with a little encouragement. Miracle and mystery of the human brain. You know scientists say we only use about one tenth of it?”
“That’s a bit of a generous theory in your case.”
The detective picks up his coffee and pours it down his throat, crushing the empty plastic cup in his grip. “Why were you in Jersey?”
“Sightseeing.”
“My guys tell me you went to the old fairground.”
“I like the rides.”
“The rides don’t work anymore, Son. There’s nothing in Jersey worth pissing on, even for a man of your habits, unless that is you’ve got a newfound appreciation for ashy mud and ruins. So try again.”
“I didn’t know I was obliged to explain my every movement to you.”
“You’re obliged to co-operate, unless you want a trip back into the state’s care.”
Frank rolls his eyes before setting them back absently on the detective’s face.
“I think you know something, Frankie. In fact I’m fairly fucking certain that you do. Supplying information regarding any goings on that you’re aware of might mean we cut you some slack.”
“I’ve still got your card handy. I haven’t called. That should tell you that you’re wasting your time.”
The detective grins, a wholesome display of yellow teeth and red gums. “Frank. You couldn’t find a cat-sized cockroach in that shitden of an apartment you keep. It was on East 76th and Lexington, right?”
Frank doesn’t respond.
“Come to think of it, I might be wrong.” The detective rocks back on his seat, crossing his arms. “Danny, where’s Frank squatting these days?”
“Broadway and 174th. The rooms above the strip joint.”
The detective smirks, nodding. “Classy. A little noisy for my tastes, all those headboards hitting the wall, but it’s the kind of neighbourhood where rent can’t be cheap. Makes me wonder how you foot the bills.”
“Legitimately.” Frank leans forward, propping his elbows on the table and threading his fingers between each other.
“Then you won’t mind one of my officers coming over to look at your data logs? I must say, it’s so refreshing of you to make yourself this amenable. Almost a different character these days, isn’t he boys?”
“I think we’re done.”
“How about I make the statements.”
“I did my time. That’s a fact. You need a judge to sign off rifling through my stuff. That’s another. And I don’t see no warrant.”
“Clever lad.”
“I got really familiar with some good books at Rikers.”
The detective sucks in one cheek and makes a deliberate noise as he releases it. “You know it’s a shame you weren’t good enough to become a cop. District’s always scalping for more smart-ass dickheads to keep the books straight.”
Frank gets up from his chair, sliding it back under the desk. “I don’t suppose you’re gonna go to the trouble of dropping me off back where you picked me up?”
“If only we had the resources. I’m afraid the department’s budget doesn’t quite cover a return fare. Danny will show you out.”
Frank stares the cop by the door down until he moves out of his way.
“Next time, Iero.”
*
Frank’s thrown down the thankfully small flight of stairs exiting the station and rolls onto the damp curb.
The rain’s falling hard and he gets up and raises his collar, lowering his head and walking fast. He knows the route home from here well enough by now. They try this every few months when they’ve got a spare afternoon. It’s like stress testing on dams and bridges, hunting for a crack. It’s usually skipped in the coldest part of winter when the seas get choppy; the ships stop coming in and the muggings and ram-raidings increase. Pressure from the top to meet reduction targets means they’re too busy to waste their already taxed time, so they leave him alone for a change. Holiday spirit. They send him a card, though: a picture of Santa Claus with a red-cheeked smile and a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck. The caption reads: ‘You may not be on his list, but you’re on ours. Watching you, love NYPD.’
If they’re waiting for him to give them an inch, tonight is their twenty-fifth time unlucky.
He’s about two miles into his journey when a set of yellow car headlights cut through the rain. There’s the steady grumble of low gears as it rolls along behind him, slowing down and coming to a stop altogether when he turns.
“Need a ride?” The man inside is young. His dark clothing and darker hair mean his face is suspended within the shadows of the interior. Frank smiles casually like he’s just been told a good joke, then keeps walking.
The car follows him. “It’s a wet night. Why don’t you get in?”
“Give me one good reason why I should, apart from the weather.”
“Schechter.”
Frank halts.
“Get in, Frank.” The stranger pops the lock. “He wants to see you.”
*
The one person who hates cops more than Frank does right now is Brian Schechter.
He’s a little rougher than Frank remembers: more stubble on his jaw and neck, and a sallower complexion. Years spent hiding out will do that to a man. Alcohol and other such pursuits are a welcome enough pastime from what happens outside on the city’s desolate streets.
“You must feel like a popular person tonight.”
Frank strides into the private lounge of the empty club and drops onto the half-moon couch with a cushioned squeak. “I knew this aftershave was worth the money.”
“Make yourself at home.” Schechter uncorks a bottle, filling a glass and handing it out. “I heard our friends threw you a little party downtown already. Does anything need looking at?”
Frank shakes his head as he takes it. “They only went for my nerves this time. Those are already cauterised.”
Schechter winks as he lifts his drink. “Makes life easier.”
“What’s this about?”
“You haven’t even got a minute for old customs?”
“Not when they’re back to watching my every shit and flush.”
Schechter nods understandingly, placing down his drink as he sits. “They’ll find something better to do eventually.”
“Like catching real criminals? I don’t think so.”
“Now now. You’re hardly an angel. It would be quite a good day for them if they could produce some worthwhile dirt on your activities post-incarceration.”
“I guess I’m lucky, then.”
“Well one of you is about to get luckier, that’s for sure.”
Frank frowns.
“Well you wanted an explanation.” Schechter adjusts his weight on the couch, settling in. “I’ll get right to the point. You remember our friend Simden, don’t you?”
“Your friend Simden,” Frank corrects him. “Heard he got sick of the rain and went West.”
“Well he got sick of the sand and came back East.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
“I didn’t hear that.”
“No one did. And he wants to keep it that way.”
“I guess that’s sensible.” Frank leans back, but not because he feels comfortable. “And what has this got to do with you?”
Schechter smiles. He picks at his nail. “That’s a rather round-about way of asking how it concerns you.”
“Okay.”
The laptop on the table in front of Frank is turned around and the screen lifted. “Simden’s got a new project. A prime one. He’s looking for contractors to help him.”
Frank lowers his own glass onto the table with a louder than necessary tap. “You know I can’t.”
“Frank, don’t think I’m not aware that you’re still whoring yourself out to petty cyber crooks to make a living.”
“Liberators are the only ones I work with now.”
“Sure.”
“I didn’t come here to collect more threats.”
“Consider it a compliment. You’re better than that freedom-fighter bullshit. This is a serious deal.”
“How serious?”
Schechter strikes a few buttons on the keyboard.
Frank squints, and then his eyebrows rise. “He’s crazy.”
“He didn’t make his fortune by being sane.”
“You’re actually going to get involved with this.”
Frank doesn’t need to ask it as a question. Schechter smirks, predictably. “I was hoping you would too, since I’ve already spoken so highly of you.”
“You recommended me for this?”
Schechter nods.
“And what do you get?”
“A percentage for making the acquaintances, and being of any other help I can.”
“And if it goes to shit?”
“I take a default.”
“I meant for me.”
“No one’s better positioned than Simden to pay for a one-way ticket out of this place. You could disappear if you wanted to; make home a place where the sun still kisses the planet. Swap that battery acid you drink for something a little finer.”
Frank looks at the display again, and looks away, shaking his head. “It’s bound to fail. The government has poured billions into making that system impenetrable. It’s a beautiful piece of software.”
“With anyone else, yes, it’s bound to fail. As a team, with you on board, it’s a certain bet.”
“I don’t gamble anymore.”
“You gamble every time you switch on your server.”
Frank takes a deep breath and sighs it out.
“You think they’re not just waiting for you to slip up so they can get you where they want you?” Schechter raises his voice gently, persuasively. “One day they’ll drag you into some little basement where they can hold you with the charges to justify it, and have the fun they’ve wanted to have with you for years. It’s only a matter of time before one of those jobs you sustain an existence with goes bad, and those people haven’t got honor enough to watch your back. I have.”
“How would I even start? Even with everything I have it would take me weeks.”
“Don’t worry about that. I can lend you some equipment, and buy you time. He’s demanding, but he’s not unreasonable.”
Frank smears his face with his palm. He can’t actually believe he’s about to agree to this, but there’s nothing but a small dose of fear holding him back. And he’s never been that worried about fear. A little of it can go a long way. “What do you have?”
“How about something nice and state-of-the-art? It would make the job easier. Have it on loan, as a gesture.”
“Does it double as an escape portal to another dimension for when the cops raid my apartment?”
“We’ll get you a new apartment.” Schechter presses a button on his watch and lights a fresh cigarette. Around half a minute later the door opens and a person walks through it.
Frank recognises the floating face from the car earlier. It’s the driver who collected him. He’s changed from his black suit into jeans and a t-shirt, and the cut of his drying hair looks puffed out and untidy from the rain’s humidity.
“You’ve already met Gerard. I had him hang back until you were a safe distance from the station, but he comes with papers in case he’s ever asked to produce them. Some of the best replicas I’ve ever seen.”
The man comes towards Schechter and sits on the couch with him, almost opposite Frank on a curve.
“Gerard, this is Frank. He’s our digital cowboy.”
“I already have the file.” The tone of his voice is a strange balance between being obedient and being slightly condescending.
Schechter looks at Frank with the beginnings of a grin. “He already has your file.”
“I hope it does me justice.” Frank grabs his empty glass and tilts it to indicate he wants a refill. “I’m going to need something a little more substantial than mechanical arm candy. Does it pour, too?”
Schechter taps Gerard on the knee and he instantly gets up, bringing Frank a fresh drink. Frank doesn’t bother to thank him. “When do I get the brief?”
“Soon. Simden doesn’t like to rush things, despite the tight timeframe, and for obvious reasons we’re playing this one extremely carefully. He wants you to work on a test case first; something to break you into using the program.”
Frank’s almost sure he feels offended by this. “If he doesn’t think I can do it why is he hiring me in the first place?”
Gerard sits back down, watching as Frank waits for Schechter to search for the right answer. “It’s not about a lack of confidence in you. The software is complicated and advanced. It took his best people six weeks to get past the first level of filters. You’ve met them. You’ve worked with them. They’re not idiots.”
Frank suddenly starts to consider that this might be harder than he’d first anticipated. His ego might even start to shrink a few inches if he spends too long lingering on the thought, and that’s bad for business. “So it’s an aptitude check.”
“Consider it a training exercise. A chance to flex those old muscles out of hibernation.”
Frank leans forward and pulls the laptop towards him. He spends a few seconds studying the lines of code. “It’s a domino configuration. Once you start if you don’t get through one door immediately after another it locks you out.”
“Yes.”
Frank ignores the fact that Schechter has placed his hand on the back of the droid’s neck. “I won’t be able to crack this unless I can disable the time restraints and separate it into workable chunks.”
Schechter agrees with a tilt of his head. “But you wouldn’t have to break it down at all, if you had an assistant.”
Frank looks up. “That thing can hack?”
“Oh Gerard here can do pretty much anything, and what he can’t, he can learn. Provided you have the chip for it.”
“That must have cost you a few jars of dimes.” Frank examines the composites that make up the face. The hairline, and the moisture cells in the corners of its eyes and lips. The thing looks perfectly human. “Who built it?”
“I did.”
Frank’s expression shows how genuinely surprised he is. “I’m impressed.”
Schechter shrugs. “Call it a hobby.”
“Expensive hobby.” Frank closes the screen. He takes a breath. This is it. One more step and he’s in the water. “The apartment key.”
“Tomorrow.” Schechter answers. “Tonight you take a cab home. I don’t want any rats that might have been following you from the station sniffing around this one.”
“Fair enough. When do I get the hardware?”
“You get him tomorrow as well. He’ll pick you up at noon.”
Frank nods and empties his glass. “This could be about the stupidest thing we’ve decided to get involved in to date.”
“That’s true.” Schechter pats Gerard’s leg again and he rises from the couch, heading forward to open the door without instruction. “At least we’ll have each other to blame if it all falls apart.”
*
Paranoia, pressure, sleepless nights.
Just like the good old days.
Frank goes home. As usual the door jams as he opens it from the amount of mess in his main room. Everything’s in here: bed, half a dozen computers and twice as many screens; all his other worldly possessions relegated to the floor and heaped into unorganised stacks. The kitchen and bathroom are bare.
He clears his mattress of clothes and lies on it, thinking about robots. Schechter and his robots. From the basic models to the more serious biomechanical stuff he’d been branching into when Frank had last seen him two years ago. It was a rickety animatronic collection of ‘almost-normal from a distance’ friends that you wouldn’t want looking too closely at you. Their eyes freaked Frank out. Glassy; their irises twisting and the black center inside growing as they loaded the data of your appearance back into their machine brains.
Schechter liked to display them as you might dolls. They were dolls, really. Toys. Tin soldiers with synthetic flesh and an electric pulse.
It’s incredible how much he’d advanced that work in just twenty-something months.
Frank wonders if he would have been able to spot it eventually, if he hadn’t been told. He sure as hell didn’t twig during the car journey, but then again he’d made no effort to interact with it. To him, ‘Gerard’ had been another in a succession of hired help. One of Schechter’s nameless staff, paid to do their job, not to engage his guests in conversation.
Rain trickles down the drainpipes of the building. The sound travels through a crack in the window that’s patched up with duct tape.
Frank wonders if he’s made the right decision, but he can’t really know the answer to that question yet. He spins over and wraps the sheet around his legs, trying hard instead to trigger a pleasant dream.
*
Noon is still dark.
The days only get light in the city during a few months in the winter, and even then it’s more of a cloud-covered grey like the dullness before a storm. Some people get their fix from tanning booths or simulated vacations, but Frank would rather spend his dollars on a good drink. UV’s bad for the skin, anyway.
The buzzer rips through the silence in the apartment as he’s buttoning his shirt up. He’s packed a small bag; just a few things that he’ll need. Laptop. Spare clothes. Some razors for the occasional wet shave, and a selection of black belts and black ties.
He steps over to the intercom and tells Gerard he’ll be down in a minute.
*
“Seatbelt.”
Frank tuts and pulls the strap across his chest.
“Thank you.”
“Can we go now?”
“Of course.”
Frank pushes back into the upholstery, creaking the leather.
“Your neighbours are very friendly.” Gerard nods towards a neon-framed window. Two ladies lie in each other’s naked laps, smoking and smiling back.
The car pulls away. The droid drives very well, which is unsurprising as it’s been engineered to be perfect, but Frank thinks a few judders and near-misses would make the illusion more believable.
“You’re wearing the same clothes from yesterday.”
Frank snaps out of the daze that’s crept over him as he’s been watching the buildings pass by. “So are you.”
“I don’t need to change mine.”
“It’s not the same shirt. I put on a fresh one. All my clothes look like this.”
“Is that for a reason?”
“Don’t you have that answer in your memory bank?”
Gerard drops fluently from the thick flow of traffic and heads down a side street. “You don’t like having to think about what to put on in the morning. It wastes brain cells. Fashion is stupid. It’s for stupid people.”
“Hole in one. Tell Schechter I’m impressed.”
“In your line of work though, you wouldn’t need to wear a suit. I’m curious about why you do.”
“You know what curiosity did.”
“I am familiar with the saying. Do you believe the suit makes a good impression, or that it’s somehow fulfilling other’s expectations?”
“Suits flatter my shape. I have disproportionate hips.” Frank chews at his nail, spitting the flecks out onto the floor. About a minute passes by in silence.
“You don’t like me.” Gerard watches the road and his mirrors carefully, speaking confidently. “Something about me irritates you.”
Frank laughs, mainly through his nose.
“You dislike us.”
“That in my file, too?”
“No. I can just tell. I sense that I make you uncomfortable.”
“It’s nothing personal.” Frank switches on the radio. Adverts bleat out into the quiet car. The voices speak so fast he can’t hear what they’re trying to sell.
“He maybe left that part out. Deleted it from your history. I can’t find a reason when I search for one.”
“If it makes you feel better, I don’t get chatty with my computers or my lavatory, either.”
“Perhaps a phobia.”
Frank laughs again, freer this time, opening his mouth. “Schechter’s tough sometimes, but he’s not that cruel.”
There’s a moment’s pause. “You are friends with him.”
“We’re something like that.”
“He helped you once.”
“Schechter’s helped me lots of times.”
Gerard stops at some lights. Shiny umbrellas weave along the pavements either side of the car. “I should apologise for the multitude of questions.”
Frank waves his fingers up slightly.
“I’ve never been introduced to an associate of his before. Formally, at least. It’s interesting to discover how social relationships between him and others are maintained.”
“You know, this date is for my benefit, not yours.” Frank looks at his watch as he talks. “Social relationship or not, Schechter’s still got a reputation to preserve.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Just so long as you’re also aware that you’re pretty much being used as a tool to observe and report back. You’re here to keep an eye on me, that’s all. Do your job and I’ll do mine.”
Gerard parks the vehicle up in an alley behind a block of flats. Across the wet tarmac some skinny teenagers are hiding inside a dumpster, watching out.
Frank looks up at the building. “Great. It’s a shithole.”
“People mind their own business in shitholes. Your room is fine.”
The droid is right. It might look like Harlem’s seventh circle from the outside, but Frank’s tenth-floor suite has been renovated and decorated to acceptable standards. He throws his bag down onto the bed end and takes off his tie. “I’m going to need something to eat.”
“There’s a Thai place downstairs.” Gerard is walking the room’s perimeter walls, checking the corners and closing the curtains.
“I can smell it,” Frank mutters. He pulls his computer out and loops the cord behind the headboard, kneeling to slot the pins into the power point.
“Would you like me to get us something?”
Frank frowns as he stands up. “You eat?”
“I don’t need to. But I can, if you’d like.”
“No, it’s okay.” Frank spins around to set up his laptop on the bed, but does a double take, looking confused. “He designed you to be able to digest?”
Gerard flicks his eyes towards a gap in one set of drapes, walking over and pulling the fabric together. “Yes. Brian doesn’t like me just sat there watching him eat.”
Brian. Frank almost feels like cracking a joke. “Then why doesn’t he just make you wait outside?”
“That would be a waste of good company. He didn’t spend the best part of a decade to make something he’d have to send away every time he wanted a snack. Do you need these?” Gerard holds up a scrambler and a charger from his own bag.
“Not tonight.” Frank digs into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled twenty. “Get me some noodles and beef. And some orange soda if they have it.”
*
Five hours later Frank’s eyes are starting to sag with the effect of the screen’s blue glow.
Gerard has been occupying himself with the silent images on the television, sat on the couch in the corner, and Frank had been hoping that he’d be able to keep going it alone without needing to call in a cover shift. A large percentage of his pride doesn’t really enjoy having to hand over the reins. Schechter knows the job, though. He knows it’s something Frank’s going to have to work on as part of a team. Hence the slumber party. “You want to take over?”
“Do you want a rest?”
Frank drinks the last of his soda and tosses the can into the bin under the dresser. “I’m just curious about what you can do.” He hides a yawn behind his hand.
Gerard gets up. He comes across to the bed, taking the laptop in his hands. Frank kicks out the comforter and slips his legs under it. “You wake me if you get stuck with anything, mind.”
Gerard glares as he tugs the power cord towards him with a snap of the wrist. It’s a perfectly performed expression of insult. Frank closes his eyes against it and drifts off, listening to the methodical click of keys.
*
Four years ago.
“Hold it up.”
If Frank holds the board any higher it’ll be hiding his face.
“Higher, asshole.”
He settles for just shaving off the camera’s view of his chin. This gets no complaint. The flash goes off and he squints.
“Move along.”
They make him take his ear tunnels out. Lip ring, too. “It doesn’t really come out,” he tells the handler.
“Take it out, or I’ll make sure someone rips it out for you in general population.”
It takes a certain breed of person to work prison security. No one tells their mommy or daddy, hey, I want to do that for a living when I grow up. It’s a career reserved for sadists and perverts. Frank tugs at his skin, forcing the metal between the pliers and clamping down. All that’s left when he looks in the greasy mirror is a little red hole in his flesh. On the positive side, orange suits him.
“Get moving.” The end of a baton is shoved in the small of his back.
Lawyers bring him cigarettes. Fast food. A few dollars to buy the things he can’t have brought in legally.
“You said they’d appeal in a week. It’s been four.”
“We’re working as fast as we can, Frank. Trust me, you’re our number one priority.”
Frank laughs and spits out wet crumbs of cheeseburger. Huge inmates in the adjacent booths eye up the tattoos on his neck and hands in between conversations with their wives or runtish children.
“You just do your best and you’ll get paid for it. If you leave me to rot in here you get zero.”
The lawyer smiles at his friendly threats. “Like I said Frank, give us time. The state really wants to have you where it can see you. You’re their little goldfish, for now.”
Months pass and Frank realizes that whatever money he has, the government has trillions more. Keeping him away from a keyboard is obviously something worth investing in.
No more visitors come. His lawyer’s line drones dead, number not recognised.
He helps the time skip by staying in his cell, reading all those books he’d always wanted to look at but had never bothered to open. For the first year he keeps his back to the brick when he’s in the yard, limiting the potential assault zone to 180 degrees. At nights he works out alone.
Keeping his head down isn’t cowardly; it helps him stay alive.
He shows some of the older inmates simple magic and puzzles. Number games, or how to succeed when calculating their bets. Poker tricks. Making sure they maximise their profit with the smuggled goods they sell. Then one day, he’s called up for visiting hour.
“Iairo, you got a guest.”
They mispronounce his surname very nicely. This is a good thing. It proves he’s not making himself known with the one set of people who could really make his life hell.
Someone he doesn’t recognise is sitting on the other side of the plate glass, staring back. Pale face, and pale hair - just the lighter side of ginger. He looks Nordic, or German, but he speaks with a North shore accent. “You’re really starting to look the part.” A perky, well-fed finger comes up and points at Frank’s yellowed vest and recent tattoos.
Frank takes a drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke through the circle of perforations in the screen. The man coughs.
“Do I know you?”
“The name’s Bryar. Bryar Associates.”
“Fascinating. Well, Mr. Associates, what can a jailbird like me do for a smart suit like you?”
“Jailbird.” The man repeats, and laughs. “That’s very fitting. I can see you being cosy in your nest here, for another few years. Maybe two. Perhaps even five if you keep these little opportunities of yours open, but those oldies are gonna die off soon. New muscle comes in. And new muscle always goes right for the softer meat when it wants to assert its place.”
“Does that image make you hard?” Frank grins. It hovers on his face for a second before it sinks. Smiling is so rare the muscles in his face feel peculiar afterwards.
The man stares at him. “Time’s running out for you. The end of easy street is in sight. It’s been sixteen months, and you still haven’t got any sign of that appeal in the pipeline.”
“I think my legal team dropped the ball on that one.”
“Right. They dropped the ball down a deep sewer, and got very well compensated for pretending they never had it in the first place.”
Frank tosses his spent filter onto the floor and squashes it flat with the sole of his sneaker. “Listen. It’s really nice of you to come and see me, Honey, but how about you get to the point. The other dudes only have to wait thirty seconds before they get a nipple flash. You‘ve wasted three minutes and I’m already bored.”
“People are asking after you.”
“Well, people will talk. It’s what makes the world go around.”
“Money makes the world go around.”
“That’s what I’m saying. I doubt I’m the topic of conversation because of my personality.”
“The talent pool is shallow since the crackdown. There are some out there who want the tried and trusted folks back, not these wannabe hotshots.”
“Tell them to bake me a cake, in that case. I get the impression I‘m staying here for a while, despite any fan club I might have on the outside.”
The man produces a briefcase from under his side of the counter. He opens it, and slips out a single sheet of paper. It’s thick; good quality. There’s even a seal on it that’s waxy and catches the light. It’s pressed against the glass. Frank has to get up off his ass and bend forward to read what’s written on it.
With a sigh he drops back into his seat.
“So?”
“I don’t really like to be tied down.”
“You’re swapping one set of handcuffs for another. But at least these expire upon completion of the payback. And your asshole stays intact.” The man lowers his voice and places the document back out of sight as a prison officer passes behind him.
Frank has his face in his hand, rubbing his temples.
“Think about it, Frank. No one’s pressuring you. But we’d like to get things rolling by the end of the month, if you’re interested in taking this opportunity. Because we’re very interested in you. You get a voucher for calls in here, right?”
Frank rests one wrist on the counter and nods.
“Then take this.” The man signals to one of the supervision staff in the room. She comes over. “Here’s a contact card for Mr. Iero here. Can I give this to him?”
The woman nods and takes it, unlocking the small hatch and slotting it through. Frank picks it out from the tray and places it into his overall pocket.
“It’s been good to finally meet you, Frank.” The man gets up, smoothing down his suit. “Don’t forget the offer. It’s probably the nicest one you’re going to find yourself in receipt of around here.”
*
Smoke is hovering low in the room as Frank wakes. He takes a moment to recognise his new surroundings, and then waves away the cloud that’s lingering around the bed with his hand.
“Do you want me to open a window?” Gerard is on the couch, waiting.
“No, just give me one of those.”
He comes towards the bed and throws Frank the carton of cigarettes.
“We need to get some more of these.” Frank rattles the last two around in the pack.
“I have enough.”
Frank sits up, pulling the blanket towards his chest. “So you smoke too?” He shakes his head, still grinning as he lights his own.
“I have a chip installed that makes me desire them, yes.” Gerard taps some ash into a saucer beside him. “I’m probably in one of the best positions to be able to quit: just remove the device.”
“How far did you get last night?” Frank asks, exhaling. The first of the morning is always so fucking good. He wonders if the thing sat opposite him feels what he feels, or if it’s just experiencing a creative guess at what satisfaction is like.
Gerard brings over the laptop. Frank backreads the log, smiling at the result. “Impressive.”
“Would you like some breakfast?”
“I need coffee.”
Gerard walks off and grabs his coat from the peg by the exit. “You like it black. Three sugars.”
Frank looks up, a little dubiously. “Yeah. That’s exactly right.”
“I’ll try not to be too long.” Gerard locks the door quietly behind himself.
*
“I trust your new haunt is to your liking?” Schechter invites Frank into his office, but indicates to Gerard that he should remain in the club’s empty bar area.
Frank shuts the padded door. “I’m not sold on the location, but inside’s fine.”
“I thought it best not to put you in a hot zone. It is a little, bohemian - but I’m sure you know how to watch your own back.”
“If I don’t by now I never will.” Frank drops onto the couch, followed by Schechter. He starts to remove his computer from his bag. “Mission one complete.”
“I don’t need to see it.”
Frank hesitates. “You don’t?”
“I knew you’d be fine. I’m not your teacher, here to mark your work. Drink?”
Frank nods, sliding the laptop away. He’s not sure if he should feel annoyed or complimented.
“I was more worried that my machine would come back in pieces.” Schechter pulls a tray carrying two espresso shots towards him. “He can be a little, inquisitive.”
“You built it to be like that.” Frank takes the small cup and gives it a sip. “Hot.”
“Best way to start the day.” Schechter smiles, tasting it too. “Sometimes a certain level of curiosity can be useful. I feel it’s more natural for him to ask questions and search for information, rather than accept barriers. Would you like something to eat?”
Frank shakes his head.
“I have the appointment for collecting the brief.”
This regains Frank’s interest instantly. “When and where?”
“Tomorrow.”
“He’s not hanging around.”
“No. I’m arranging for a transport as it’s an out of town meeting.”
“How far out of town?” Frank tries to imagine all the possible places wealthy enough for Simden’s tastes that fall within the Tri-State area, and comes up with a blank.
“You’ll find out tomorrow.” Schechter relaxes back, loosening his tie. “You’ll be able to catch up with some old friends.”
“Real friends, or are you being sarcastic?”
Schechter tries to disguise his grin by looking away. “No one you can’t handle. A few old classmates.”
So Simden’s really collecting the cream of the crop together for this one, Frank thinks. “Anyone I’d rather know about now?”
“Well,” Schechter rubs at his jaw, “Toro will be there.”
Frank looks distant for a minute.
“That’s not going to be a problem, is it?”
“No. I just thought Toro made a new life for himself. Away from all of this.”
Schechter laughs sympathetically. “Frank, we all made new lives for ourselves. Things don’t always work out how we’d imagined they would. Eventually we all trickle back down to the same sea.” He pulls out an envelope with a ticket inside it and passes it over. “We’ll pick you up at six. Early flight.”
Frank takes it. “You’re collecting Toro, too?”
“No, I mean Gerard and I.”
“Right.” Frank places it in his jacket pocket. “Six it is, then.”
It’s around two p.m. that afternoon when Frank returns to his new apartment block, taking the tram against Schechter’s offer of a ride.
He stops for some greasy food at the restaurant next door. The serving he had from here last night was meagre, but that’s exactly what he’s looking for all over again. He finds he has little appetite these days, and even less with the weight of the meeting pressing against his neck like the blade of a guillotine. Names rattle around in his head, spinning from the seed that is Toro’s. Faces that have probably aged, or changed. Surgery is a good way to avoid detection, disappear. Frank never considered it. Too squeamish. The thought of seeing someone else in the mirror was personally much too strange; he’d rather take the monthly wrangling he was subjected to by the cops. He’s pretty sure identity-altering operations would violate his parole terms, anyway.
Families and couples chatter in muddled accents around him. They speak in their own language when they don’t want him to hear what they’re saying.
“Do you do sundaes?” he asks the waitress when she comes to take away his dish and refill his coffee.
“Yes. What flavor you want?”
Frank thinks for a moment. “I’ll take a strawberry one.”
Strawberry is for girls. Little dudes should eat little dude flavors. Like chocolate. You can have berry syrup, how about that for a compromise. (The sound of the seaside) Looks cool, huh? Watch it on your shirt, there. Use your napkin. When I was a kid, we used to say it looked like blood.
She brings it over. Frank destroys the layering in the glass with slow jabs of his spoon, staring out at the traffic.
“You want check?” She comes back half an hour later. The place is empty of other customers.
Frank nods. He calculates the tip he’s going to leave when it comes, grating some quarters out onto the peeling tablecloth, and gets up.
“You not gonna finish?” She gestures at the desert. Frank shakes his head, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair.
*
The private airfield is near-abandoned when they get there: only a single jet waiting on the gleaming tarmac. Schechter takes the tickets and tears them apart. “Since we’re here in one piece.”
Decoys. Reservations for commercial flights; props, in case they had been hailed to pull over half-way out of the city: three men in a Lincoln trying their best not to look shifty. He sets the scraps alight and drops them to the floor. With Schechter, every decision is this theatrical; intricate with purpose.
They board. The plane’s divided into two areas, one with workstations and screens, the other with comfortable seating and a bar. Frank recognises the mound of hair at the counter helping itself to a drink, and sits down opposite an unfolded newspaper that’s sprouting a pair of casually crossed legs underneath. The printed surface rustles. “I knew we could count on him coping you in on this too.”
“Can’t help being required.” Frank slides off his coat. He’d had the ID in the bag with the illegal gator-hide shoes, but he’s surprised when Saporta’s face appears, looking fresher than seven years of reputed international cat-and-mouse would suggest. “You look well, Gabriel.”
Saporta lets the paper hang on one side and lifts his drink from the end table. “I wish I could say the same for you. Crappy posture.”
“Yeah well, I don’t get out much.”
“Too much time spent in front of a screen. But I guess you need to keep up your skills.”
“Who did your facelift? It’s lovely.”
“No one you’d know. I heard you hate that sort of thing. Unwilling to move with the times. Concrete feet. It’s a real progress killer.”
“I prefer the old-fashioned way of doing things.”
Saporta readjusts his position on the couch as both Schechter and Gerard place themselves beside him. “Well the new way is here. It’s walking around, sat with you on a first-class flight to opportunity.” He aims a crafty glance at the android. Schechter is already reading his own paper, but looks up to register the comment.
“The Frank I know wouldn’t miss the chance to poke around something he didn’t make, regardless of his distaste for wetware.” Toro makes the statement as he floats over, sipping his own beverage. Frank feels the cushioning dip when he takes a seat on his couch. “It’s good work. Very realistic. You should tell him that.”
“I already have.”
Toro bares his huge teeth as his lips roll back into a smile. “That true, Schechter?”
Schechter ignores the question, checking the time. “We have one more coming. I hope they’re not late. It throws the timetable off track.”
“Stop being so on the ball. You make me nervous.” Saporta rolls his head around, bending his neck with a crack of bone. His vision comes to rest on Gerard’s still face from the side, and he looks at it for a minute, visibly thinking. “I’ve finished this paper. Get me something else to read.”
Gerard doesn‘t turn his head, or get up.
“Look at that. Broken already.” Saporta laughs.
“He’s not your flight attendant, Gabe.” Schechter places down his reading material. “This journey is going to go much more smoothly if everyone can keep their manners and hormones in check.”
Frank closes his eyes. The seating is comfortable, but the proximity of his company makes him uneasy to try and sleep. Maybe he’ll be able to relax once the last guest has been revealed.
The engines come on line. The air-con kicks in.
“I hope I’m not holding you all up.” A shy voice comes from the doorway. It makes Frank’s head snap up and his eyes focus.
“You had a few minutes before I was going to fly out of here without you.” Schechter rises from the couch, stepping forward.
“Is that the in-flight entertainment or did my waiter just arrive?” Saporta smiles as he points.
“One of your friends?” Toro leans over and asks Frank quietly.
Frank shakes his head. He doesn’t recognise the man. His bandy legs fit into a pair of faded blue jeans, and a thin grey raincoat is buttoned across his top half. The green case he’s carrying cuts through the uniform cream of the plane’s interior.
He slowly crosses the carpet and sits in Schechter’s place. There’s a barrier created by Gerard’s presence, preventing Saporta from making direct eye contact. “You got a name, then?” he presses regardless.
Toro sighs. “Christ Gabe, let the man have a seat before he begins his introductions.”
“I don’t recognise him. Anyone worth their salt, I’d recognise. I hope we’re not scraping the bottom of the barrel here, Brian. I don’t like having to test the chain for weak links before we begin.”
“Why don’t you chill out.” Toro addresses him sternly. “Sit back and have some more to drink. I’m sure our mysterious hacker will provide his credentials for you, if that’s what you want.”
“Programmer,” the stranger corrects Toro quickly. He unclips his briefcase and exposes a small laptop. “I create things. I don’t destroy them.”
“Can I get you anything?” Schechter asks him.
The stranger’s lips smooth out as he smiles. “Just some water, thank you.” He takes off his coat and pulls it from under himself without getting up. “My name’s Price.”
“Todd Price?” Frank asks, sitting up.
The man nods.
“I can assume you haven’t publicly deflected.”
“Did you hear sirens following me here?”
Frank takes the point with a softening of his expression.
“Would someone mind filling me in?” Saporta demands.
For once, Frank feels like making his life easier. “Price here works for Ellipsis. They were contracted by the government. He designed the software we’re up against.”
“Along with others.” Price begins to type, his fingers flowing quickly across the keys. “The original version has been adapted, of course. Which is why you’re all here. The coding was changed to make the system more secure and bespoke for the needs that Joe public isn’t authorised to know about. But essentially, yes, it’s my baby.”
“And you’re still on Ellipsis’ payroll?” Saporta grills him with a narrowing of the eyes.
“How else would I have access to everything we need to do this job?” Price takes the glass of water from Schechter. “Unless you’d rather skim about on the outside, looking in.”
“How can we trust you? You’re a nobody.”
“Easy, Gabe,” Schechter tells him.
“As far as you’re concerned.” Price takes a sip. “But there are things that don’t concern you, that are still important things nonetheless.”
Frank’s amused that Saporta’s getting as good as he gives. “Price doesn’t just work on government contracts. He does some pro-bono work for other parties, too.”
“Such as?”
Frank bats the question over to the subject in question with a flick of his hand.
“I’ve worked with Frank in the past, although he won’t have seen my face before now. I’m sure he would have been able to identify me by a few lines of code, though.”
“That fucking tree-hugger shit?” Saporta’s eyes widen - not in an approving way.
“From a man wearing two skinned eels on his feet, I’m pretty sure I should take that insult as a compliment.”
Toro launches into a laugh so loud and long that Frank wonders if he’s been into more booze than first appears.
“Laugh away, Toro. I thought we were doing something a little more high-profile than this liberation crap, and I would’ve brought my walking boots if I’d known we’d be going cross-country.”
“We’re not going to the hideouts.” Brian jumps in, taking a seat beside Frank. “Simden’s the primary contact. He provides a buffer of security. His clients are none of our concern. Who he sells this information onto once he has it is none of our concern. Let’s keep politics out of this.”
“Tell that to Mr. Price over there. I’m sure he’s not switching sides out of the coldness of his heart.”
“I’ll take enjoyment in seeing the government’s power capsized, yes. They’ve taken what I created and turned it into a surveillance tool, and that needs to be addressed, even if it can’t be corrected. But I wouldn’t say that’s my sole motive here.”
“Then what is your motive?”
“What’s yours?”
“That’s easy. Money.”
“Don’t be modest. You like the fame. That ‘Cobra’ notoriety you worked so hard to achieve. It’s a challenge.”
“Better than having a grudge.”
“Let’s just relax.” Schechter asserts. “Relax.”
Price goes back to punching buttons. Gerard has not yet said a word.
“How long is this flight?” Toro asks, directed at no one in particular.
“I’d say we’ll be in LA in about four hours.” Schechter settles back into his seat, closing his eyes.
“Los Angeles?”
“Yes.”
Gabe’s expression sours once more as he picks his paper back up and flaps it open. “Great. I didn’t pack my fucking shades.”
*
Part two