"Dammit, you just cost me big time." Frankie shot dirty looks I ignored as he folded his portable table into a briefcase. The terrace of the crumbling building shielded him from the rain; streams of it fell between us like prison bars. His hair floated around his head like he'd just stuck a wet finger in a live socket, and his coat had so many patches on it I couldn't tell where the original fabric started. Like everything else, his appearance was an illusion. He could blend in with any crowd, anywhere.
"No one cares about your work, anyway." I lit a smoke and puffed. "They had to be homeless, for crying out loud. How were they gonna pay you, in lice eggs?"
"It's not the berries. It's the information. These guys see and hear everything. So thanks for gumming that up for me. What do you want from me this time?"
I rubbed my hands together. "Pipe this: a few nights ago someone's leg got snatched, see? A high pillow kinda someone. Now, I know Tommy Tsunami has his mitts on it at present, but I wanna know who did the snatch in the first place. The way I see it, Selene's gotta be as tightly guarded as Tommy, maybe more. But someone got past her security, her Gutter Girls, even past her wolves. Then they sedated her and performed a perfect surgical amputation without killing her. Now who in the hell could pull a stunt like that?"
Frankie’s mouth twisted. "I heard about the leg, yeah. Old news. It was the work of a freelance thief, maybe the best in the business. Goes by the handle of La Fox. Besides being a master hacker, she can steal the nails off of your fingers with a handshake. A common leg would be duck soup for a pro like her. That's all I know."
I love it when a stoolie says 'that's all I know'. Which translates to: ‘Payment up front.’ I pulled out a loaded dibcard. "Ok, Frankie. I got a hunch that a yard can jog your memory."
He snatched the card and instantly downloaded the dibs with a swipe across his holoband. "Look, you had better know you're waist deep in gasoline here. You’re going to blow sky high if you keep shooting off sparks. It’d be better for you to walk away while you still have all your parts in working order.”
“Appreciate the concern, Ace. But I just paid for a song. So sing, little birdie.”
He glared. “La Fox was brought in from outside the network, since every freelancer in town already has ties to the Gestalt in one way or another. Takes a lot of work to get into New Haven unannounced. That alone should tell you this soup is too hot for you to swallow.”
“Good thing I’m cold as ice. Keep talking, Ace.”
“Fine. Don’t say you weren’t warned.” He took a wary glance around and hunched his shoulders. I had to strain to hear him when he spoke.
“Something big is going down. Even the hardheads here in the Docks are spooked. They talk about a man with silver eyes which can kill just by looking at you. That explosion a few blocks from here? Yeah, his work. No one knows his name or where he comes from. But I happen to know they call him the New Man. He's gathering soldiers. Hardheads, goons, bums — they get snatched up and next time you see them they're in black robes, on secret assignments and smoking anyone who gets in their way.
“They call themselves the Specters. Seems they're pitching fits because someone stole some precious cargo from them a few nights back. Has to be the leg. They've been tearing the city apart looking for it."
I exhaled a sigh of second-hand smoke. "Frankie, you're killing me. I ask for the wire and you give me bedtime stories. Don’t get me wrong, it was entertaining and all. So thanks for that. Now spill, only this time tell me the actual truth."
"Hey, you know how I deal. That’s the crop. If you don’t like it, you can climb your thumb, Mick. We'll see how well you can—"
Frankie couldn't finish his genius insult on account of being slammed against the wall. Poddar placed his handy kukri to Frankie’s throat. I took another drag and exhaled ghosts while Frankie gurgled in fear.
"You're going to tell us what we want to know right now." Poddar’s soft voice was laced with cold steel. "People’s lives hang in the balance, and you're wasting our time."
Frankie sneered. “I don’t think so. Your part in this game is over.” He looked Poddar directly in the eyes. “Why don’t you do yourself a favor and think about nothing for a minute?”
Poddar’s eyes went blank and his mouth dropped wide open. Frankie’s voice seemed to come from everywhere. It rang in my ears like gongs of pure crystal. There was something about it, something hypnotic…
“And why don’t you go jump in the lake, Mick Trubble?”
The insane part was I really did want to jump in the lake. It was only the fact that New Haven didn’t have one which saved me from a premature baptism. The confusion splintered the hypnosis, allowing rational thought to resurface. When it did, my first instinct was to go for the Mean Ol’ Broad.
But when I raised that lovely piece of steel-plated poetry, Poddar was looking at me open-mouthed.
Holding an empty jacket. Frankie Newman had pulled a Casper right in front of our eyes.
I shook my head. "Damn, he's good.”
We pulled up to a dilapidated house a few minutes later. Hunter Valentino actually lived in the West Docks, which right away should tell you a bit about his personality. I don't come calling except in the most extreme circumstances. He kinda gives me the creeps.
Maxine squealed off with Poddar to pick up the Cowboy, which left me at the ramshackle dive with no way to escape. The rain had temporarily stalled and the streets responded by letting off some steam, creating a haze which suited the place well. I walked up the broken steps and opened the door. It was never locked. Only a kamikaze nut job would walk in on Hunter looking for trouble.
"You look like you could use a drink.” Hunter didn’t bother to turn around. The eerie thing about him is he always knew when I was coming. I never figured that one out.
The place was almost as cheerful as a funeral parlor. A single flickering bulb illuminated what I guessed was the kitchen area. Hunter looked pale as a ghost, especially since he insisted on wearing black all the time. Only his tie had any color, a lime tongue that lolled down his chest. He gestured to the table.
"Absinthe.” The glasses glowed green with the stuff. A bowl of sugar cubes sat beside the glasses.
That was our tradition before talking. He drank nothing else, which was probably why he was so gonzo. Well, that and the fact he was a synoid. That was the real reason why he drank. If you can’t spot a synoid on sight, you can always figure it out by what’s on the menu.
Meat and pretty much nothing else besides stiff drinks. High volumes of alcohol and protein are converted into the fuel which keeps them running. I don’t trust synoids as a rule, but somehow I’d come to terms with this particular one. After all, he was the one who pulled me out of that black, filthy water the night I lost my memory. I never really bothered to question why.
Maybe because I was afraid of the answer.
The thing which made Hunter unique is he's independent. Every now and then a synoid will get its wires crossed, or its remote operation goes faulty, or a million other variations. In most cases it will shut down permanently, but every now and then one will continue developing, continue to improve its own programming. It will behave so human that eventually it comes to believe it is.
Of course synoids are easily detectable if you look closely. Their faces tend to be a bit too doll-like, but it’s the eyes that give them away. No engineering in the world can put a soul inside of those windows. With synoids there’s just nothing there. Not exactly the creepiest thing I've seen, but it comes close.