Hunter’s independence was illegal of course, and the standard procedure is to destroy any such synoid upon detection. In his case that was a task easier said than done because Hunter was more than his name; it’s his model description. Hunter model synoids are a step above street sweepers. They’re designed to infiltrate, search for a specific target, and destroy it. Which made a body wonder who his mark was before he became a free agent.
He took his absinthe straight, but the stuff is so bitter I had to add sugar. I took a cube from the vintage bowl, soaked it in absinthe, and lit it on fire. When I dropped it in my glass, the spirits blazed green. I doused the flame with a shot of water before it could eat up the alcohol.
We raised the glasses in salute. "To memory," Hunter said.
“Memory is something I’m in severe lack of.” I downed the shot. The flavor was like black licorice dipped in turpentine. I tried not to wince. “That’s why I came to chin it up with you, Hunter. You know things most people don’t.”
Hunter stared without blinking. “You couldn’t be more correct.”
“Then throw me a bone, Ace. You’re the only one who might have a clue why I was floating in the river with a bad case of amnesia. Now something big is going down, and somehow I’m caught in the middle of it. I’m mildly concerned it could be tied to my missing past.”
“As you should be.” His face had the expression of an empty box. “Tell me, what do you know about the citizenship of New Haven?”
“Citizenship? Whaddya mean? This place is made up from all the refuse from the other Havens — the more civilized ones. Most folks here are on the run from one thing or another, in most cases being the Secret Service. Seeing as we’re in the middle of the nastiest swamplands and the deadliest oceanside in the Territories, it makes a hard nut for the Service to crack.”
He downed another shot. “Have you ever seen the other Havens? In person, I mean.”
I shrugged. “Who can afford it? That’s how they grift you — by charging rates so high it’s guaranteed no one except the butter-and-egg sort can transit back and forth. Besides, being zipped through thousands of miles underground at supersonic speeds ain’t exactly my idea of a good time.”
I forgot about what was in the bottle before I poured another shot and downed it in a single swig. It was hard to suppress the gag reflex.
“Then how do you know they exist?” His face was ominously blank.
I opened my mouth, then paused. “You taking up philosophy now, Hunter? Whaddya mean how do I know?”
“It’s a common misconception to believe what’s presented to you is reality, when in fact it may be anything but. How can you know something is real unless the experience is stored somewhere in your memory?”
I felt the dizzy rush only an alcohol buzz can give. I shook my head to clear it. “Why the twenty questions, Hunter? I thought you were going to tip your mitts on what’s going on.”
He sighed patiently and downed his shot glass. “It’s all relative. You see, you were involved in a high stakes gig a while back. One that involved going up against the most brilliant mind in New Haven. You weren’t successful. In the ensuing gun battle you ended up in the waters of the West River.”
“Other than you fishing me out of there, I don’t recall anything of the sort, Hunter.”
Something like a smile flickered across his face. “Precisely.”
My head spun like a wobbly top. Absinthe is potent in the first place, but I couldn't even feel my feet on the shaggy carpet. "Man, what was in that bottle?” I crashed hard on the battered sofa, holding my head in both hands.
"The previous elixirs dissatisfied me. I had this specially imported. The recipe is very old, perhaps the original, and has the distinct ingredient that others are missing."
"Listen Hunter, I…" I blinked, having missed my train of thought by a mile. The room faded in and out in greenish shades. Hunter was an indistinct figure, peering at his glass thoughtfully. His voice droned on as though from a dead man’s throat.
"You know, for years absinthe was blamed for psychedelic affects. Wild behavior. Bad men drank it. Conservatives tried to ban it. Thujone was the reason. A chemical known to have interesting side effects. Found in wormwood. The thing is, most absinthes have only harmless qualities in it. Most."
I could barely hear him. I was back in the river. Black choppy waves crashed over me, pulling me to darkness. Green fairies circled, bubbling with laughter. Their hair rippled like sea moss as I drifted to the sea bottom, scattering silver-eyed fish. Hunter Valentino waited for me there, still studying the contents of his glass. I choked on black water while he calmly spoke.
"You came to me because you want me to help you, and I will. But I need targets, and you haven’t provided any. You should know that by now. Your problem is in your mind. Your memory, specifically. I cannot help you in that regard. But there is someone who can—"
He turned as though he heard something. Then he rose and walked away as if the sea bottom was flat ground. I flailed uselessly, unable to rise to the surface. My lungs were about to explode, black flecks danced across my vision…
The entire river crashed on my head.
I sat up sputtering and soaking wet. As I blinked the water from my eyes, two figures gradually took form. The first was Poddar. The second was a stranger. A mustached man wearing a brown Stetson and a long leather duster over his shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. With spurs.
Spurs.
He was the one holding the bucket. He tipped his Stetson apologetically. "Well, it looks like you were having one helluva drunken dream there, mister. I'm sorry to have to introduce myself by dumping a load of water on your head, but we were afraid you were gonna hurt yourself, flailing around on the floor like that."
"Where… where's Hunter?" I managed to gasp.
He and Poddar exchanged glances. "Ain't no Hunter here, partner. Just us. My name's Rob. You can call me the Cowboy if you like. I heard you could use a hand helping Poddar here out with rescuing his lady friend. Turns out that's just my specialty. Besides bagging and tagging, that is — an occupation that ain’t been too profitable of late. I’m hoping teaming up with a yahoo like yourself can help change that."
"Well yippee-ki-yay, melon farmer.” I staggered to my feet. The Cowboy didn't exactly look all that impressed, and I couldn’t have blamed him. I had some cross words to say to Hunter when I saw him next.
Politely cross words, anyway.
"What happened to you?” Poddar wasn’t exactly the picture of sympathy either.
"Nothing. Trip for biscuits. Listen — enough questions. We have to get on the ball. I have a few ideas…"
"Hate to ask this…" The Cowboy stared out the doorway. But are those clowns friends of yours?"
We turned around. A crowd of hardheads gathered outside the door, reeking of body odor and equally foul intentions. All of them wore black robes and bad haircuts. The lug in front pointed a bio-gun at us.
Big mistake.
Chapter 8: Man of Shadows
"What is it about this side of town?"
The bio-gun was interesting. Basically, it grafted itself to the arm and was powered by energy from the body’s cells. The newer models are built directly into your holoband, but he had one of the clunky older models with the wires that actually injected into the forearm.
Still, even those things were expensive; too much for a common goon to own. And getting assaulted by a mob of angry monks was pushing it, even in the West Docks. Lucky thing I had friends with me.
The goon gave us the customary warning. "All of you are coming with us. Either in one piece, or bleeding all the—"
His spiel was interrupted by his words flying out the back of his head. Not a pretty sight. I had heard The Cowboy was on the swift, but to see it in real life was pretty impressive. His weapons of choice were throwbacks: tech-modified Single Army Action pistols.