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“What, so he could fire a plasma cannon into the crowd, or immolate some street punks with rockets?”

“You wouldn’t be running late if you’d brought Harry,” she said.
 
“You’ll come around in the end.”

Mason muttered something under his breath as he pushed through the crowd.

“What was that, Mason?” said Carter.

“Nothing.”
 
He looked around.
 
“Where the hell is it?”

“Over there.
 
See the yellow and red neon sign?”

“It’s in
hanzi
, Carter.”

“Yeah.
 
So, that’s the place.”

“You sure?”

“I read Chinese,” she said.
 
“Clear as day.
 
Says it’s the
Golden Palace Restaurant
.”

“Of course you do,” said Mason.
 
“You read Chinese, but you can’t dance.”

“I didn’t—”
 
She sighed.
 
“I didn’t say I couldn’t dance.”

“Whatever.”
 
Mason pushed through the greasy plastic strip door at the base of the stairs, then headed up.
 
The carpet was old, stained, worn thin in places.
 
A while ago it might have been red.
 
The inlay might have been gold.
 
It was just brown now; something stuck to the bottom of his foot.
 
He paused.
 
“You sure this is the place?”

“I’m sure.
 
You said neutral.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to get salmonella.”

“You can’t
get
salmonella,” said Carter.
 
“Besides, this place gets great reviews.
 
Don’t forget.
 
You’re running late.”

Mason kept moving up the stairs.
 
At the top was a long corridor, running the length of the building.
 
His feet carried him down the dim hall, optics adjusting for the low light.
 
A wooden door with a gold handle was waiting at the end.
 
He tipped his head sideways, listening, a hand on the handle.
 
The noise of the street had sunk to a murmur.
 
The door was clean of the grime on the floor.
 
He pushed it open.

The room he walked into was carpeted with a rich red pile, gold threads running through it.
 
A large tiger’s head was picked out in gold on the floor just inside the door.
 
He let his feet take him over it, looking at the partitions made of slatted wood — or something like it — separating booths from each other, wide tables set out with white china and black chopsticks.
 
White double doors with round glass windows set at eye height led to a kitchen, which was set at the back near where he’d entered.

Mason let his optics pick out the details, mapping the room, noting the rough edges.
 
Around the walls of the restaurant weapons hung in racks, the HUD spitting up names and dropping their locations into the map it was building up.

The restaurant was empty, except for a table near the middle.
 
Two men sat at the table.
 
The HUD marked them up for him, uplink IDs showing on the map in the corner of his vision.
 
City records were downloaded, the floor plan in the archives overlaid against Mason’s generated map.
 
Matched pretty close, give or a take.
 
As an afterthought, the HUD dropped in uplink IDs in the kitchen area out the back, some migrant workers doing whatever people did in kitchens.
 
It’s not something Mason cared enough about to find out.

“Eighteen Arms,” he said.

“What?” said Carter.

“All these swords and shit.
 
It’s the Eighteen Arms of Wushu.”
 
He coughed a little too loudly into his hand so the two men would know he was there.
 
As if they didn’t already
.
 
“It’s quite different on the inside.
 
They’ve got some kind of medieval theme here.”

“You don’t say,” said Carter.
 
“That’s not mentioned in the reviews.”

“Let’s do this.”
 
Mason walked towards the two men.
 
One of them he knew.
 
Even if he’d forgotten the face he’d remember the immaculate white cuffs.
 
The man’s cufflinks were made to look like small gears.
 
He let a smile split his face.
 
“Hey.
 
Metatech, right?”

The other man stood up, returning the smile and offering a hand.
 
“That’s right, Apsel.
 
No hard feelings?”

Mason shook Metatech’s hand, then turned to the other man.
 
He picked out sunglasses over an expensive suit.
 
Sunglasses?
 
Inside?
 
“Reed?”

“Right in one.”
 
They shook, then all three of them sat down.
 
Mason couldn’t help but notice that his back was to the door, Metatech and Reed with their backs to the window and the street outside.

Reed leaned forward.
 
“What’s this about?”

Mason held up a hand.
 
“Can I ask a question first?”

The Reed man sat back, spreading his hands out.
 
“It’s your dime.”

“Sunglasses?
 
Inside?”

Reed’s face quirked, almost a smile.
 
“It’s a thing I’m testing.
 
For the company.”

Mason nodded.
 
“Sure.
 
Look, is there a waiter here?
 
I want a drink.”

On cue, a slim Asian man in white entered through the kitchen doors, walking to their table.
 
Mason caught a smattering of
hanzi
in softly glowing green under the cuff of his white jacket.
 
His optics picked out the empty holes in his ears, like the restaurant didn’t want their staff to show metal to the customers.
 
The man’s accent was thick.
 
“Food?
 
Drink?”

Metatech waved a hand.
 
“Sure.
 
Píji
ǔ
?”

The waiter looked at him.
 
Reed snorted.
 
“It’s just
pí
.”

“You shouldn’t rely on the link for easy translation, especially if you’re using the wrong language,” said Mason.
 
“
B
ī
ru o onegai shi
.
 
Asahi, if you’ve got it.”

“
Tsingtao
?” said the waiter.
 
As Mason’s nod he turned to the other two.
 
“Anything else?”

“Whatever he’s having,” said Metatech.
 
Reed nodded.
 
After the waiter had walked away, Metatech turned back to Mason.
 
“
B
ī
ru
?”

“Japanese.
 
Not Chinese.”
 
Mason drummed his fingers on the table, then said, “Look, this meeting—”

“We’re just having a couple beers,” said Metatech.
 
“It’s not a meeting.
 
There’s no way the syndicates would sanction a
meeting
.”

Reed nodded.
 
“Just a couple of beers,” he said.
 
“On our own initiative.”

The waiter came back out with a tray, three green bottles frosty at the front, some glasses clattering against them.
 
He started to put the beers in front of them.
 
Mason waved the glass away, taking a pull right from the bottle.
 
“
Garasu de kuru
.”
 
Comes in a glass
.

“You speak Japanese?” said Carter.
 
“What the hell use is that around here?”

“
Watashi wa nihongo wo sukoshi dake hanashimasu
,” said Mason to her.
 
“Look, I need to focus here.”
 
But the link was already gone.

“Problem, friend?” said Reed.
 
He poured his beer into the glass in front of him.

“No, no problem,” said Mason.
 
“Just my handler checking in.”

“I hear that,” said Metatech.
 
He and Mason clinked bottles.

“You guys know each other?” said Reed.

“Sort of,” said Mason.
 
“Professionally.”

“Misunderstanding,” said Metatech.

“A misunderstanding.”
 
Mason nodded.
 
“Metatech here was trying to sell Apsel tech.
 
Or buy it, I haven’t worked it out yet.”

“Buy it,” said Metatech.
 
“Didn’t know it was Apsel.”
 
The other man frowned, straightening his cuffs.
 
“Probably wouldn’t have changed our course much if we had known, though.
 
We might have brought a few more operatives.”
 
He smiled at Mason over his beer.

Reed nodded.
 
“Misunderstandings.
 
Wrong board memo at the wrong time, and we cop the shit, right?
 
Happens all the time.”
 
It was hard to read his face behind those glasses.
 
Mason liked to see a man’s eyes when he was brokering a deal.
 
“I had two of those last week.”

“Ah,” said Mason, taking another pull from his beer.
 
“So, here’s the problem.”

“Problem?” said Metatech.
 
“Something the Federate needs our help with?”

“Not really,” said Mason.
 
He put his beer down, turning the bottle so the label faced him.
 
He started scratching it off with a fingernail.
 
“More a… friendly piece of advice.”

Reed laughed.
 
“You’re trying to stop a sale.”

Metatech started to laugh too, but stopped when he saw the look on Mason’s face.
 
“Holy shit.
 
It’s something big.”

A piece of the
Tsingtao
label came off, a bright red letter on a white background.
 
Mason looked at it for a moment.
 
“I had a meeting with the boss this morning.”

“Right,” said Reed.
 
“So what?”

Metatech said quietly for a moment, then said, “
The
boss?”

“Yeah,” said Mason.
 
“The boss.
 
Gairovald.”

Reed spat out the swallow of beer he’d been taking, dabbing at his chin with a napkin.
 
“I didn’t even know he was in the country.”

“He’s not.
 
Officially, I mean.”
 
Mason shrugged.
 
“Just passing through.”

“And he met with you?”
 
Reed took another swig from his glass.
 
“What division you work in?”

“Specialist Services,” said Mason.
 
“Acquisitions.
 
Mostly.”

“You really must be good enough to not need backup,” said Metatech.
 
“What’s he like?”

“He’s the boss.”
 
Mason tipped his head sideways.
 
“Knows what he wants.”

Metatech nodded like he knew.
 
Maybe he does — could play golf with the head of Metatech on a Sunday.
 
No way to know
.
 
“What did you lose?”

“No clue,” said Mason.
 
“We tracked the deal online, same as you.
 
Unspecified syndicate tech.
 
We’ve worked out it’s ours.
 
Comes in a box about this high.”
 
He held a hand up to the height of their table.

Metatech leaned forward, his beer forgotten.
 
“Recovery?”

“No,” said Mason.
 
“Remove and erase.”

“Christ,” said Reed.
 
“Jesus Christ.”

“Why you telling us?” said Metatech.
 
“I mean, it’s got to be golden.
 
We’ll all want a piece.”

Mason nodded again, as if agreeing.
 
Another piece of the Tsingtao label peeled off.
 
“It’s a fair warning.
 
If you want in, you have to go all in.”

“All in?”
 
Reed looked at him over his glasses, Mason getting a view of his eyes for the first time.
 
Worried
.
 
“What do you mean?”

“Stock price might go up.
 
Might go down too.”
 
Mason turned the bottle in his hands.
 
“Or war.
 
We won’t stop until we… resolve the loss.”

Metatech snorted, then caught himself.
 
“There hasn’t been a war between the syndicates in—”
 

“What do you want out of this?”
 
Reed topped up his glass from the bottle.
 
“And why us?”

“Easy,” said Mason.
 
“I’m actually hoping you’ll be smart enough to stay out of the way.
 
Someone’s trying to sell our shit, and they’ll be trying to sell it to one of you.”

“But why
us
?” Reed said.
 
“Reed Interactive.
 
Metatech.
 
Apsel.
 
What’s the link?”

“Money, mostly.”
 
Mason looked at the man, then turned the beer bottle around on the table, the knurls on the bottom making a harsh sound.
 
“They’ll need a syndicate with the cash to pay for it.
 
Look, we’re the same guy, just different places.
 
We all got our reasons for working… where we do.”