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“You always think in straight lines, Mason.
 
Just bring it back with you.”

“What about the cops?”
 
Mason flicked his optics back, glancing over at the cop.
 
The man’s face had turned red.

Carter giggled.
 
“I’ll make another call.”

“No, it’s all good.
 
Leave this one to me.”

“It’s always work, work, work with you, isn’t it?”
 
Carter dropped the link with a click.

Mason turned back to the cop, who was standing like he was caught between running and standing still.
 
“You done?”

The other man swallowed.
 
“That was the chief of police.”

“I know,” said Mason.
 
“Can I go now?”

“Well,” said the cop.
 
“There’s a small—”

“You’re on the take.”

“I’m…
 
What?”

“You’re on the take.
 
From the South Sun Tigers.”

The other man’s eyes bulged.
 
“Now just wait a goddamn minute—”

“No,” said Mason.

“No?”

“No.
 
I won’t wait a minute.
 
I won’t wait five.
 
Here’s what’s going to happen.
 
You’re going to go deal with the Tigers.”

“I—”

“Yeah.
 
See, you’re on the take, but they’re going to be upset with you.
 
Letting me walk like this.
 
Way I see it, you need to front foot that.
 
Get in front of it,” said Mason, reaching down and grabbing the Reed body by the jacket lapels.
 
“Kinda sucks.
 
Have a good night.”

He walked out of the restaurant, dragging the body behind him.
 
His feet took him back to the big Suzuki, and he linked to the bike, warming it up.
 
He threw the body over the front near the handlebars, the arms and legs dangling down either side.

The bike hummed, waiting.
 
Mason reached into his jacket pocket for the Treasurers, lighting one up.
 
He hoped Reed wouldn’t come looking for their synthetic body before he had time to finish his cigarette.

Bernie looked over his glass at the two company men.
 
The whisky was old and tired, but the price was right.
 
“It’s legit.”

The one from Reed —
what’s with the sunglasses inside?
— snorted.
 
“It’s hardly legit, Eckers.
 
If it was legit, we wouldn’t be dealing with you.”

The Metatech suit tugged at his cuffs and looked over at Reed.
 
“How you feeling?”

Reed frowned.
 
“I feel fine.”

Bernie looked between them.
 
“Great.
 
You’re feeling fine.
 
How do you feel about making some money?”

“Because,” said Metatech, “I saw you get shot.”

“What?” said Bernie.
 
“I didn’t get shot.”

“That’s right,” said Reed, looking at Metatech.
 
“It’s a neat trick.”
 
He tapped the side of his nose.

Metatech sighed.
 
“Fucking Reed.”

“Yes,” said Reed.
 
“At least we don’t do so much shooting.”

“Seriously,” said Bernie.
 
“What the fuck are you guys talking about?”

“It’s not your concern,” said Metatech.
 
He leaned forward over the bar.
 
“Who do I have to kill to get a drink around here?”

Bernie swallowed, then reached under the bar.
 
His hand dropped down to the rack of glasses, past the shotgun strapped under the bar top.

“I wouldn’t,” said Metatech.

Bernie froze.
 
“Wouldn’t what?”

“The shotgun,” said Metatech.
 
“I just want a beer, anyway.
 
Don’t need a glass.
 
Don’t really want to shoot you either.”

Reed nodded.
 
“Not until we know what this is about, anyway.”

Bernie straightened, then reached behind him into the fridge.
 
It had a glass door, frosted over with old ice.
 
“Whatever.
 
It’s just a glass.
 
There’s no shotgun.”

Metatech laughed then, some genuine mirth crinkling his eyes.
 
“You don’t deal with us very often, do you Mr. Eckers?”

“You?
 
Fuck no.
 
First time I’ve seen you assholes.”

“Not us,” said Reed.
 
“People like us.”

“Company men,” said Metatech.

“No,” said Bernie.
 
“You’re all motherfuckers.”

Metatech slowly pulled his hand up from under the bar, placing a sidearm on the top.
 
The metal made a dull clunk against the wooden top, just one more mark in the old brown surface.
 
“Careful,” he said.

“No, really,” said Bernie.
 
“I invite you down to my place—”

“
The Hole
,” said Reed.

“S’right,” said Bernie.
 
“
The Hole
.
 
Ain’t no other like it.”

Reed looked around the gloom, glancing at the stage.
 
“That’s probably the truest thing you’ve told us today.”

“Like I said,” said Bernie.
 
He looked at the Metatech sidearm on the bar top.
 
He hadn’t seen anything quite like it before, the barrel looking too big for such a small weapon.
 
He put two beers on the bar.
 
“You guys need me to open those?
 
They’re not twist-tops.”

Both company men shook their heads, grabbing a bottle each.
 
Reed opened his with a twist of his wrist, and Metatech popped the top off with his thumbnail.

“Sure, ok,” said Bernie.
 
“You don’t need an opener.
 
Good.
 
Fine.
 
I invite you down to my place, my
home
, wanting to do some business, is all.
 
And you come in here, company attitude, syndicate men, getting in my face.”
 
He grabbed his glass from the counter and took a hit of the whisky.

Reed and Metatech looked at each other.
 
Reed sipped from his beer, then said, “Your home?
 
You live in this shit hole?”

Metatech was frowning.
 
“You said you wanted to do business.”

“S’right,” said Bernie.
 
“Just a little business.
 
Got something.”

“What kind of something?” said Metatech.
 
He hadn’t touched his beer.

“Syndicate something, if you know what I mean.”

“Apsel,” said Reed and Metatech together.

“What?”

Metatech leaned forward again, his hand lying over the top of the sidearm’s grip.
 
He spoke low, almost soft.
 
“You’re trying to sell us Apsel ‘something’.”

“What?” said Bernie.
 
“Why you say that?”

Reed put his beer on the bar top between his hands, shifting the bottle back and forth, the sound a low grind.
 
“Because they’re not here.”

“Maybe I don’t like Apsel as much as I like you guys,” said Bernie.

“We’re motherfuckers,” said Reed.

“All of us,” said Metatech.
 
“One motherfucker’s much like another.
 
It’s the money on the table that matters.
 
You’re a fixer, Eckers.
 
You care about the percentage.”

“Right,” said Bernie, “which brings me to the next point.
 
The money.”

“No,” said Reed.

“No?”

“No, said Metatech.
 
“We don’t talk about the money.
 
We talk about the product first.”

“Can’t tell you about the product,” said Bernie.
 
He leaned forward, looking between the two company men.
 
Absolute, total motherfuckers
.
 
“But you can trust me.
 
It’s good shit.”

“I don’t think I would trust you, Mr. Eckers,” said Reed.
 
“Not in business.
 
Not to serve me beer that’s not watered down—”

“Hey!” said Bernie.
 
“It’s straight from the bottle!”

“—and definitely not with my life.
 
If you can’t tell us what the product is, you should tell us where it’s from.
 
What it’s worth.”

“Millions,” said Bernie.

“Millions,” said Metatech.
 
“That’s a broad spectrum.”

“It’s the truth,” said Bernie.
 
He held up his hands.
 
“Ok, ok.
 
You got me.
 
It’s Apsel tech.
 
Straight from one of their R&D heads.”

“Ah,” said Metatech.
 
“Is a defection part of the deal?”

“Last time we got one of your cast-offs, the product was defective,” said Reed.

Bernie looked down at his belly, thinking of a tight young body pulling away from him in a back room.
 
“It wasn’t defective.
 
You just didn’t use it right.”

“And you say we’re the motherfuckers,” said Reed.

“A defection.
 
Sure.
 
It’s a part of the deal.
 
I don’t care about that,” said Bernie.
 
Fucking Haraway.
 
“You take the brain with the box.”

“Box?” said Reed.

“Yeah,” said Bernie.
 
“It’ll come in a big metal box.
 
You can just take it out on the same forklift you bring my piles of money in with.”

“You seem pretty sure we’ll want to buy it,” said Metatech.

“Yeah,” said Bernie.
 
He grinned at them.

“We’re not getting anywhere with this,” said Metatech.
 
He picked up his weapon faster than Bernie could blink, pointing the barrel at Bernie’s forehead.
 
“What’s it going to be, Eckers?
 
Dead on the floor, or want to tell us why you’re trying to set us up?”

There was something red glowing at the bottom of the sidearm’s barrel.
 
Bernie watched it like it was a snake.
 
“I—”

“Come now,” said Reed.
 
“Mr. Eckers.
 
You know the
rules
of this game.
 
We’re not going to give you money unless we know what’s in the box.
 
We’re certainly not going to bid against each other without some foresight.
 
It just doesn’t work that way.”
 
He straightened his sunglasses, ignoring the weapon trained at Bernie’s head.

“I—” said Bernie.

“See,” said Metatech, “the problem is that we’ve already met with Apsel.
 
Just a little earlier today.”

“You…
 
What?”

“We,” said Metatech, nodding at Reed.
 
“Met with Apsel.”

“You met with Apsel?”
 
Bernie swallowed.
 
Mother
fucking
Haraway.
 
“What…
 
What did they say?”

“They said not to buy the box,” said Reed.
 
“They said it’d mean war.”

“War?” said Bernie.
 
“There hasn’t been a syndicate war in—”

“We know,” said Metatech.
 
“Near as we can work out, only an idiot would try and broker a deal at this level.”

Bernie’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times, then he licked his lips.
 
He could feel sweat trickling down his back, his too-tight shirt sticking to him.
 
“I’m not trying to…”
 
He waved his hands.

Reed stepped back from the bar, then kicked through the wooden front.
 
Splinters and glass sprayed around Bernie’s legs.
 
The man leaned forward, reached in and grabbed the shotgun.
 
“No shotgun,” he said.
 
“Think we should believe him on the money?”

Metatech hadn’t moved a millimeter.
 
“No.”

Reed hefted the shotgun, cracking the breach then slapping it closed.
 
He cranked the lever, a shell ejecting and spinning out the side.
 
“Seems to be well maintained.”

“Yeah,” said Bernie.
 
“Shit happens here sometimes.”

“Shit,” said Metatech, “is about to happen.
 
Right here.
 
Right now.”

“I swear!” said Bernie.
 
“I’m not trying to rip you guys off!”

Reed glanced at Metatech, then back to Bernie.
 
“No, I guess you’re not.”
 
He brought the shotgun down across his knee, the weapon snapping in half at the breach.
 
Metal and shells fell to the floor of the bar.

Bernie could feel a warm wetness in his pants.
 
He was going to die here, and it was all that bitch Haraway’s fault.
 
“Goddamn Haraway.”

Metatech leaned forward.
 
“What did you say?”

“I—”

“Jennifer Haraway?
 
Atomic Energy?
 
Apsel Federate?”
 
The Metatech man paused, looking at the beer in front of him.
 
“I might even forgive you for trying to lace my drink.
 
If Haraway came with the box…”

Bernie swallowed, opened his mouth to speak.
 
No sound came out.