Upgrade (9 page)

“Make time, Carter.
 
I’ve got a guest.”

“You’ve got a guest that charges by the hour.”

“You’re just cranky because I got you up at 5:30.”

“You didn’t get me up.”
 
Carter sighed.
 
“I didn’t get any sleep last night either.”

“Working late?”
 
Mason put eggs and bacon down on the marble counter top, then went back to the refrigerator for some butter.
 
It was real, from grass-fed cattle.
 
He had a guy who got it for him.
 
He put the butter down on the marble, letting his eyes wander over the almost black surface, veins of white making him want to touch it.
 
Mason rested his fingertips against the cool stone for a moment, then raised his hand in front of his eyes.
 
“I’ve still got the shakes.”

“You were in the chair for an hour.”

“It felt like longer.”

She sighed down the line.
 
“This is one of the many reasons I don’t do field work.”

“That’s your problem, Carter.”
 
Mason fired up the stove — expensive gas flames licking the bottom of the skillet — and threw a good chunk of butter in the bottom of the pan.
 
“You never get out.”

“I don’t dance, Mason.”

“Who said anything about dancing?
 
But sure, dancing.
 
You should try it.”

“I don’t want to try it.”
 
She paused for a second.
 
“I don’t think so, anyway.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Look, I’ve never really thought about it, okay?”

“Sheesh.
 
Ok.”
 
The butter had started to bubble, and Mason dropped some bacon in the pan.
 
“I just figured — well.
 
Work bonding.
 
I could take you out bowling.
 
Or dancing.”
 
He watched the bacon for a little longer, then cracked some eggs into the pan, moving the butter around over the top of the eggs.
 
A gentle heat was the secret to a perfect fried egg — that, and real butter, and real bacon.
 
Everything was better with bacon.
 
“Carter.
 
You still there?”

“I’m here, Mason.”

“Sorry, I thought I lost you.”

“Did you just ask me out dancing?”

Mason tucked a spatula under the edge of an egg, gently teasing it off the pan.
 
“Not really.
 
I asked you out bowling.”

“I don’t dance.”

“So you said.”
 
Mason finished flipping the eggs.
 
“But you know.
 
We could go play darts instead.
 
I don’t know.”

“It sounds like a date.”

“It’s a few drinks after work.”
 
Mason’s eyes flicked to the bedroom, where he could hear the sounds of movement starting.
 
“Christ, I’ve forgotten the toast.”
 
He rummaged in the pantry, pulling out a loaf of artisan bread.

“I’d…”

“What?”

“I can’t, Mason.
 
I want to.
 
But I can’t.”
 
She sounded wistful.
 
“I’d like to learn to dance.”

“Hey, your loss.”
 
Mason cut the bread into thick slices, revealing seeds within the bread.

“It looks good.”

“Jesus, Carter.
 
Are you watching?”

“It’s my job.”

“It’s my apartment!”

“Sorry.
 
I’ll kill the video.”

“Thanks.”
 
Mason looked at the bread.
 
Un-toasted it’d have to be, or the bacon would burn.
 
I can’t believe I’ve screwed up bacon and eggs.
 
“I think this is the first time I’ve forgotten to toast bread for breakfast.
 
Ever.”

“It’s been a long night.
 
Cut yourself some slack.”

“I can see you’re warming up again.”

“You’ve got a meeting with Gairovald at 9.”

“Sorry.”
 
Mason pressed a button on the Jura, watching it turn and shuffle through the coffee ceremony.
 
The smell of beans hit him as the espresso streamed into two cups.
 
“I thought you just said Gairovald.”

“That’s right.”

“The boss.”

“That’s right.”

“Am I being fired?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck!”
 
Mason spun to face the room, coffee forgotten.

“Relax,” said Carter, “I’m just messing with you.
 
You’re not being fired.”

Mason felt tension in his back unkink.
 
“You’re an asshole.”

“Don’t forget.
 
9.”

He held a hand up, middle finger extended.
 
“This is for you.”

“Cute.”

“I thought you killed the video.”

“I thought you weren’t twelve.
 
We can both be wrong, hey?”

“Seriously.
 
An asshole.”
 
Mason thought for a moment.
 
“Is someone else being fired?”

“Trust me,” said Carter.
 
“This one’s right up your alley.
 
Enjoy your breakfast.
 
Don’t forget to take some stims.
 
They’re in the medicine cabinet.”
 
The link clicked off, leaving him alone in his head.

He sighed, then pulled out a breakfast tray.
 
Mason started piling bacon and eggs on the bread, nestling the coffee cups in amongst it all.
 
Meeting old man Apsel at 9, huh
?

He walked back towards the bedroom.
 
No problem.
 
There was time for breakfast — and maybe a little something else.

⚔ ⚛ ⚔

He was still rubbing his wrist where the stim had stung against his skin as he left the apartment.
 
He’d left the girl in bed, eyes wide over black sheets, holding a white cup as she’d breathed the aroma.
 
Maybe she’d never had real coffee before.

Mason figured it was a bonus of sorts.
 
She’d done good work.

He carried another coffee with him, a plastic lid over the Federate’s logo against the white waxed cardboard.
 
He passed other company employees in the corridor, people bustling on their way to work.
 
White uniform clothing with the Apsel logo above the left breast.
 
These assholes need to not all shop at the same store.
 
Mason glanced down at his own darker denim and jacket, the utility of the clothing more important than almost anything.
 
Despite that, Mason still wore the company’s small falcon high on the collar of his jacket.

It was always best to show a little flair when meeting with the big man.

He waited at the elevator with small huddle of people.
 
They eyed him nervously; they all had different hair cuts, some with face tattoos or glowing holos under the skin, others making their own statement with perfect, clean skin.
 
Their eyes were all the same though, watching him.
 
The elevator arrived with a soft chime, and he stepped in.
 
“Anyone else?”

His eyes scanned them until the doors slid closed, cutting them off from view.
 
It might even have been justified; Specialist Services had a brand of its own.
 
Still
.
 
“Fucking robots.”

“Sorry?”

“Not you, Carter.”
 
Mason shifted the cup to his other hand.

“You’re running late.”
 
She cleared her throat.
 
“Again.”

“Do you ever get tired of it?”

“Tired of what, Mason?”

“I don’t know.
 
Of being treated like a leper.”

“There hasn’t been a case of leprosy in over fifty years.”

“You know what I mean.”

Carter paused, then, “It’s a bit different in… my team.”

“All doing the same work?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re lucky.”

He could feel her smile through the link.
 
“I don’t know.
 
You get to see more people than I do.”

“It doesn’t count if they’re all assholes.”

“Fair enough.
 
Gairovald’s been held up.”

“So I’m not late.”

“You’re still late.
 
He’s just running more late.”

“It’s his dime.”
 
The elevator stopped, sliding open in front of him.
 
He stepped out, the people waiting parting in front of him.
 
Leprosy hadn’t died out fifty years ago.
 
It’d just got a new marketing team.

Mason walked down a long corridor, plush wool carpet —
real
— soft under his boots.
 
He reached an open reception area, a white wooden coffee table set between two leather couches.
 
A black reception desk sat further in, the spread wings of the Federate’s logo embedded as slate in the wood.
 
There wasn’t anything subtle about it.

He nodded to the woman behind the desk.
 
“Nancy.
 
How you doing?”

“You’re late, Floyd.”
 
Her face was stone, but a smile twinkled in her eyes.

“I’m doing great!
 
Thanks for asking.
 
How are the kids?”
 
He put the coffee cup on the desk in front of her.
 
“I brought you a little something.”

“You’re an angel — but you’re still late.”
 
Nancy reached for the cup, popping the top and inhaling.
 
“I don’t know how you still get real coffee.”

Mason looked at the cup in her hands, thinking about where it came from.
 
I’m no angel, sister.
 
We both know that.
 
The lie felt easy, and he tried it on with a smile.
 
“I know a guy.”

“You want to share the name of this guy?”

“Not really.”
 
He winked at her.
 
“If you can go right to my supplier, well hell.
 
I won’t get favors ever again.”

She tossed her hair, the smile reaching her mouth.
 
“You can go in.
 
He’ll be along in a few.”

“Thanks, Nancy.”
 
He stepped past the desk, then looked back at her.
 
Damn, but Gairovald has taste
.
 
“See you later.”

“Sure, Floyd.
 
Sure.”

⚔ ⚛ ⚔

Mason was leaning back in the big leather chair as Gairovald Apsel walked in.
 
Mason picked out the signature flower in his breast pocket — something pink today — as the man walked up to the big boardroom table.
 
His tailored suit was immaculate, and color-matched to the two guards who followed him in, their ebony skin dark and clean.
 
They took up stance at either side of the door, leaving Gairovald’s side, eyes locked on Mason.

“Mason.”

“Sir.”
 
Mason stood, hands clasped behind his back.
 
“It’s a rare privilege to talk with you in person.
 
What can I help you with today?”

“That’s one of the things I like about you, Mason.”
 
Gairovald sat at the other end of the long table, gesturing with a hand.
 
There was almost no trace of his German accent.
 
“You’re to the point.
 
That, and you get results.
 
Please, sit.”

Mason let a small smile onto his face, sitting back down.
 
When the boss tells you to jump, you jump — sitting’s easy
.
 
“Thank you, sir.
 
I’m just happy that I’ve been able to help with some of the company’s… opportunities in the past.”

“Opportunities.”
 
Gairovald showed perfect teeth.
 
“You have a curious way of thinking.
 
I read Carter’s report on this morning’s incident.
 
It was well-handled.
 
However, it’s not the end of it.”

“Sir?”

“Are you aware of our research division?”

“It’s one of our leading assets.”
 
Mason quickly scanned the numbers Carter flicked up on his overlay.
 
“Some 34,000 employees — and change — are in that division.
 
Mostly working on new initiatives.
 
I don’t have details on that, it’s above my classification level.”

“Something’s run sour.”
 
Gairovald pursed his lips.
 
“A rather unique piece of research has been stolen.”

“I—”
 
Mason tapped his fingers against the vast mahogany of the table.
 
It was almost certainly real wood.
 
“I see.
 
Is it related to this morning’s endeavor?”

Gairovald smiled with his mouth, not his eyes.
 
“Very perceptive, Mason.
 
How did you know?”

“You asked us to find and recover the technology causing the hallucinogenic atmospheric effect.”
 
Mason coughed.
 
“Not much was left at the site we found, but there was clear evidence our tech was involved.”

“Our tech?”

“Atomic Energy.”
 
Mason frowned.
 
“What I don’t get—”

“Yes,” said Gairovald.
 
“Atomic Energy.
 
Someone’s been selling my tech, Mason.
 
Someone I employ, someone I’ve housed.
 
Put food on their table, clothes on their back.
 
They want to steal from me.”