“For the drinks,” Three explained.
“Your woman-friend already paid,” the bartender answered. “Nice tipper, too.”
Silence descended upon the bar as Three made ready, patrons goggle-eyed at this last brazen assault on their day-to-day routine. They’d all assumed Three was a drunken drifter. Now, he was checking the cylinder of his pistol and holstering it, sliding a slender-bladed short sword into its sheath at his lower back.
Three threw his coat on over his hardware, and wordlessly flowed out onto the street, in pursuit of a deadly man he didn’t know for reasons he couldn’t understand.
Two
Cass leaned hard against the wall of the narrow alley, trying to catch her breath.
“Mama?”
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t wanna go down there, Mama.”
She glanced towards the far end, where a single steel door, painted dull, flat black yawned like the mouth of a cavern.
“It’s alright, it’ll be fine.”
“I don’t wanna go.”
“We have to, baby. It won’t take long.”
“Mama—”
“Wren, enough!” she cut him off, irritated. His spirit crumpled, and she took a breath, softened the best she could. “You can wait here if you want. I’ll just be a second.”
Wren stared at his shoes: cheap pull-on low-cut boots. There was a hole where his toes would be next year. He shook his head slightly.
“OK,” she said. “We’ll go together. Real fast.”
He didn’t look up, but pushed his small hand into hers. As Cass slid along the alley, tugging him behind, Wren wiped his eyes, hoping she didn’t notice. At the door, Cass straightened, ran her hands over her face, slapped her cheeks to color them. She exhaled, tried not to wince. When she pounded on the door, the dull thuds died off almost instantly inside. At first, nothing.
Then, just as she raised her fist to pound again, a heavy clank sounded from within, and the door cracked open. Cass pushed in warily, felt Wren’s fingernails dig into her palm. She squeezed back.
There was a soothing hum inside, a deep vibration like machinery running up against a wall, but no electric lights; the afternoon sunlight filtered in from a high slot-window, casting the dank interior in dusty gray. The walls were bare concrete; stagnant water pooled in one corner. A single stainless steel table lay in the middle of the room, with a pair of stools nearby.
“It smells,” Wren whispered.
A shuffling noise sounded from near the entry, and Cass spun around as the door clanged shut. A bent old man peered at them with pupil-less ice-blue eyes.
“Are you a doctor?” Cass asked.
“Depends on who’s asking, and whatfore,” the old man croaked.
“I need quint, three tabs. I’ve got fifty Hard.”
He sucked air in through his teeth, and shook his head slowly.
“I ain’t made no quint in months, darlin’. Can’t get the greeds for it anymore. Duff be alright?”
Cass shook her head.
“Gotta be quint.”
The doctor shrugged.
“’Fraid I can’t help ya with that,” he said. “Are you sick or somethin’? Hurt?”
Cass glanced down to Wren. His eyes were red, like he’d been crying. He wouldn’t look at her.
“You’re sure you don’t have any? Not even a couple?”
“Sweetheart, if I had ’em, I’d sure sell ’em to ya,” he said kindly. “Ya don’t look so good. Why don’t ya sit down? I’ll see if I can find something else for ya.”
With unfocused eyes, Cass gazed at the top of Wren’s head, his hair, his perfect, fragile features; he stared off to one side at the wall, the corner, nothing. The pain in her side burned like a firebrand through her liver.
“I know you’ve got ’em.”
She said it without looking up, felt the doctor tense, air suddenly electric.
“I’m not looking for trouble. I just need the quint. I can pay you fifty. That’s a good deal for you.”
She ran slender fingers through Wren’s hair, then down gently over his eyes, closing them. Hot tears dripped.
“But I already told ya—” the doctor started.
He didn’t finish.
Cass whipped her hand with inhuman speed, driving the edge into the right side of the doctor’s neck, crippling nerves, rupturing the carotid and jugular. The old man twisted, collapsed to the floor, a bag of meat and loose bones, neck bearing a spray of deep purple beneath the unbroken skin. Silently, Cass bent down, hooked the doctor under the arms, and dragged him towards the back of the small room. His head lolled awkwardly, unnaturally.
Wren stood still as a statue, eyes closed, tears streaking his face. Cass went to him, took a knee, placed her hands on his shoulders.
“We’re OK, Wren,” she whispered.
“You hurt him,” he answered.
Cass nodded. She squeezed his shoulders, and labored to her feet.
“I need to look for something. Want to help?”
He shook his head.
“OK, baby. OK.” Cass patted him gently, then staggered to the back corner, placing her hands on the wall. Her side crackled, pain radiating, organs and nerves alive with all-consuming fire. She squeezed her eyes, tried to force the ache to wash over her and away, tried to concentrate.
Breathe, Cass, she thought. Breathe.
Focus eluded her. Without it, she would never find what she was looking for; without it, she would die. And they would take Wren.
Something brushed against her leg. Cass opened her eyes, found Wren by her side, his tiny hands outstretched, spread on the wall.
“It’s OK, Mama. I’ll do it.”
He didn’t even shut his eyes, just stared ahead, seeing not what was in front of him, but rather the information stored around him, history embedded in the invisible electromagnetic swirl. There was a faint whir, and the deep hum grew louder. Across the room, a section of concrete wall withdrew, slid open, revealing an inner chamber, stocked with gear. Cass felt tears come to her eyes.
She bent down, kissed Wren on his head, raised his face so she could look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry I had to hurt that man, baby.”
Wren nodded.
“He was lying,” she explained. “He wanted to keep us here. We have to hurry.”
Wren nodded.
“I’m sorry I made you cry.”
He wiped his eyes.
“It’s not your fault, Mama,” he answered, brave, bottom lip quivering. She hugged him tightly.
They separated, and Cass half-stumbled her way into the hidden room, with Wren trailing close behind. Inside, the small interior space was packed with the delicate machinery of a chemist: vials, thin flexiglass tubes, pristine stainless surfaces. An overhead panel glowed a soft blue-white, bathing the room in a surgical sterility. The hum came from a centrifuge, spinning contentedly on one of the stainless steel tables. Next to it, placed against the wall, Cass spotted a silver floor cabinet, nearly Wren’s height. She moved to it, swung open the unlocked door. Tabs, vials of viscous fluids, injectors, powders. Chems. Lots and lots of chems.
She rifled through the case, searching with trembling hands for the little lavender tabs that she desperately needed. Black spots floated in her vision, a weakness seized her legs. Cass buckled to the floor, pulling shelves from the case, scattering a rainbow assortment of geometric shapes and vials across the glass-smooth floor. Wren stood in the doorway.
“Mama?” he called, hushed.
“I’m OK, baby. Just give me a minute,” she soothed, hoping she sounded calmer than she was.
“No,” his whisper was quieter, but more intense, urgent. “He’s here.”
As if on cue, thunder pounded the steel front door, three rolling booms. Cass pressed a single finger to her lips, motioned for Wren to step inside the room. He tiptoed in, careful not to step on any of the chems that covered the floor. Cass’s heart raced, she bent low, searching anywhere and everywhere for the lavender tabs. Her vision swam, colors confused. Again, three shuddering blows.