He had the cab let him out at a corner coffee stand that was licensed to accept basic ration cards. It was in the exact same location as the last place he’d ever eaten in Baltimore before he left. The cart and the franchise brand were different, but the assortment of rolls and muffins looked identical.
“Tall cup and a corn muffin,” he said to the girl working the cart. She looked so surprised when his terminal transferred actual money instead of basic ration credits that she almost dropped his food. By the time his Ceres New Yuan routed through the network and into UN dollars, with every exchange and transfer tacking on fees, he wound up paying triple for his snack.
The muffin tasted like it had been recycled from old, previously eaten corn muffins. And the coffee could have passed for a petroleum product, but he leaned against a wall beside the stand and took his time finishing both. He tossed what was left into recycling and thanked the girl. She didn’t reply. His space money and foreign clothes left her staring at him like some sort of alien creature. Which, he supposed, he sort of was.
He had no idea where to start looking for Erich. But he didn’t have to walk far before a teenage girl with machine-quality braids and expensive cotton pants drifted out of a shadowy doorway.
“Hey,” he said. “You got a minute?”
“For you, Mongo?”
“Name’s not Mongo,” Amos said with a smile. He could see fear in her eyes, but it was well hidden. She was used to dangerous strangers, but part of that was she knew they were dangerous.
“Should be, brute like you.”
“You’re local. Help a guy out.”
“You need herbage? Dust? I got neuros, that’s your thing. Make you fly outta this shithole.”
“Don’t need your stuff to fly, little bird. Just a question.”
She laughed and gave him her middle finger. He wasn’t a customer, so he wasn’t anything. She was already turning back to her dim doorway. Amos grabbed her upper arm, firmly but gently. There was a spark of real fear in her eyes.
“Gonna ask, little bird. You answer. Then I let you fly.”
“Fuck you, Mongo.” She spat at him and tried to pull her arm out of his grip.
“Stop that. Just gonna hurt yourself. All I want to know is, who runs your crew? Looking to talk to a guy called Erich. Messed-up arm? If your crew ain’t with him, just point me at someone who is, sabe?”
“Sabe?” She stopped struggling. “Speak English, asshole.”
“Erich. Looking for Erich. Just point me and I’m gone.”
“Or maybe I bleed you out,” a new voice said. Someone big came out of the same doorway his little bird used. A mountain of a man with scars around his eyes and his right hand inside the pocket of his baggy sweatshirt. “Let her go.”
“Sure,” Amos said, and turned little bird loose. She bolted for the steps up to her doorway. The walking mountain gave him a nasty grin. Taking Amos’ compliance for fear.
“Now get gone.”
“Naw,” Amos said, smiling back. “Need to find Erich. Big boss now from what I hear. He running your crew? Or can you point me at a crew working for him?”
“I fucking told you to—” Whatever else the mountain was about to say turned into a gurgle after Amos punched him in the throat. While the mountain was trying to remember how to breathe, Amos yanked up the bruiser’s sweatshirt and plucked out the pistol he had tucked in his belt. He stomped on the back of the mountain’s leg to drop him to his knees. He didn’t point the pistol at him, just held it casually in his right hand.
“So, this is how it goes,” Amos said in a voice low enough the mountain would hear him but no one else would. Embarrassment was the number one reason people fought. Reduce how embarrassed the mountain was, reduce the likelihood he’d continue fighting. “I need to find Erich, and either you’re my friend on that, or you’re not. Do you want to be my friend?”
The mountain nodded, but he wasn’t talking yet.
“See, I like making new friends,” Amos said and patted the thug on his beefy shoulder. “Can you help your new pal find his other friend, Erich?”
The mountain nodded again and managed to rasp out, “Come with me.”
“Thanks!” Amos said, and let him up.
The mountain shot a look at the dim doorway, probably signaling little bird to call ahead to someone—hopefully Erich’s crew—with a warning. That was all right. He wanted Erich to feel safe when they met. If he had a lot of guys with guns with him, he’d be more likely to relax and listen to reason.
The mountain led him through his old neighborhood and down toward the docks and the crumbling stone monolith of the failed arcology project there. He was limping a little, like his knee was bothering him. A couple of guys with baggy coats that only sort of hid the heavy weapons underneath nodded at them as they went in, and then fell in step behind them.
“An escort and everything,” Amos said to one of them.
“Don’t do nothing stupid,” came the reply.
“Fairly sure I’m a few decades late on that one, but I take your point.”
“Gun,” the other guard said, holding out his hand. Amos dropped the pistol he’d liberated from the mountain into it without a word.
From the outside, the old arcology structure was falling apart. But once inside, the look changed dramatically. Someone had replaced the water-damaged flooring with new tile. The walls were painted and clean. The rotting wood doors off the main corridor had been replaced with composites and glass that could take the damp air. It looked like nothing so much as a high-end corporate office building.
Whatever Erich was up to, he was doing well for himself.
They stopped at an elevator, and the mountain said, “He’s up on the top floor. I’m gonna bail, okay?” His voice still rasped, but it sounded a lot better.
“Thanks a lot for the help,” Amos said without sarcasm. “Take care of that throat. Ice it up when you get back and try not to talk too much. If it’s still bugging you in three days, steroid spray’ll do it.”
“Thanks,” the mountain croaked and left.
The elevator dinged and opened, and one of his two remaining guards pointed inside. “After you.”
“Gracias,” Amos said and leaned against the back wall of the car. The guards followed, one of them sliding a metal card into the elevator controls and hitting the top button.
On the way up, Amos entertained himself by figuring out how he’d get the gun away from the guard closest to him and kill the other. He had a pretty workable strategy in mind when the elevator dinged again and the doors slid open.
“This way,” one guard said, and pointed down a hallway.
“The club level,” Amos replied. “Fancy.”
The top floor had been redesigned with plush furnishings and a maroon velvet carpet. At the end of the hall the guards opened a door that looked like wood but seemed heavy enough that it was probably steel core. Still fancy, but not at the cost of security.
After the luxury of the hallway, the office on the other side of the door was almost utilitarian. A metal desk dominated by screens for a variety of network decks and terminals, a wall screen with an ocean view pretending to be a window, and a big rubber ball instead of an office chair.
Erich always had been twitchy sitting still too long.
“Timmy,” Erich said, standing behind the desk like it was a barricade. The two guards moved off to flank the door.