Chapter Sixty-Eight - Things Get Worse

“We’ve had a couple of hard years, we’ve survived them.

But things are about to get worse.”

--Deus Ex, open letter to the Family, 2056

***

Burringham walked into the kitchen carrying two cans of soda. He extended one to me.

I looked at it for a moment, then took it to set it onto the counter next to me.

The staff had cleared out, and when Burringham pulled a few strings, they let his guards use the fridge. A big metal box with only one exit that was uncomfortably cold. A great place to keep someone like Linda while they asked her a few pointed questions and some quickly-hired infosec-types ran through everything her augs had picked up.

“We keep meeting in kitchens,” Burringham said. “And it’s never a pleasant sort of meeting.”

“Twice isn’t that often,” I said.

“You say that, but it feels pretty frequent to me,” he said with a smile.

I stared at him, and even if he couldn’t see my face... his smile dropped.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s... a habit to try and comfort the people I’m talking to. Get on their side, make them feel... like people, I guess. It ought to be common courtesy, but it’s a skill I literally had to learn.”

“Hmm,” was all I could say to that.

Burringham popped the tab on his can, then took a long swallow. “Not supposed to be drinking this shit,” he muttered before taking another. “You were right. About Linda.”

“Myalis did most of the work,” I said.

He shrugged. “Then it was right. Everything was covered up, but... Linda’s not some expert hacker. She knows enough to get by, more than most even, but now that the people with the right skills are actively looking. It’s all there. She hired some thug to shoot me.”

“You could have died.”

“She paid extra for him not to, you know.” He made an explodey gesture with his free hand. “He was meant to shoot me with some specialised gun. Fancy, sure, but not as lethal as some other guns. He was paid a lot more to aim low. Guts, legs, my balls.”

“That would have been interesting,” I said.

Burringham chuckled. “The memes would have been... oh, awful. Burringham, a politician with no balls. They make themselves.”

“Was it all for the press?” I asked.

“All for publicity,” he agreed. “Linda... fuck me. I knew she’d go far, but not... not that.”

I shook my head. “You knew she’d be willing to hire an assassin?” I asked.

“For someone else, maybe. Not for me. Not as part of some fucked up publicity stunt. I swear, I’ve heard about this kind of thing in movies and soap media, not in active politics.”

“She tried to kill me,” I said.

“It didn’t take,” he replied.

I turned towards him. “Eleanor... don’t know her family name. Cute girl. Real polite. Had small dreams, but seemed set on reaching them. She’s dead now. Don’t cover this shit up for publicity, Burringham, don’t play games. Do the right thing.”

“That’ll make it harder to win any election.”

I shoved the can he’d given me into his chest. He almost fell on his ass. “If you can’t win while doing the right thing, then the entire system’s fucked. At that point, you might as well get out the guillotines. And if that happens, you’ve got a real boujee look to you, Burringham.”

He swallowed. “I understand. I’ll do what I can. To make sure things are set right, and, and for Eleanor.”

“Good,” I said before walking out. I didn’t even know what I was waiting for in there. I probably just didn’t have anything better to do.

You have a guest coming to meet you.

“Oh?” I asked, not really interested.

Deus Ex is heading towards the hotel. She sent a low-priority message for you just before you started speaking with Burringham.

“That’s weird,” I said. Now my interest was peaking. Just a little. “I bet some shit’s going down and she needs me to pick up a shovel. I swear, I don’t get a break.”

You are a Vanguard. Being at the front means that while you have many behind you, there’s nothing ahead of you. It’s all too easy to find yourself pulled in many directions at once.

“Fucking tell me about it,” I said.

The restaurant was mostly cleared out as I made my way through it. The staff were sitting around the tables usually used by their clients, chefs and sou-chefs and all the others just... lounging around, chit-chatting or staring off into their augs.

I hoped they were getting paid for their sudden time off.

No one had touched my hoverbike, but the thing was now covered in a wet sheen. At some point the grey clouds had given up on holding back the rain, and a light shower came pouring down on the city.

All that meant was that more power was diverted to the neon signs so that their glow could pierce the gloom. There was no washing away the shittiness of the city. Not with something as mundane as an afternoon shower.

I got on my bike, set the GPS onboard to lead me back to the hotel, then took off. “Can you tell Deus Ex that I’ll be there in ten,” I said.

Message sent. She will be waiting for you in the bar two levels below your penthouse.

I didn’t even know there was a bar at the hotel. Though really, it shouldn’t have surprised me any.

I flew through densely-packed traffic, avoiding cars and trucks and generally disregarding any traffic laws that I found inconvenient or that slowed me down. When I arrived at the hotel, someone ran up to take care of my bike. There was still a lot more security, but they let me in without comment.

And then it was up to the bar.

The place was nice. TV screens on the walls gave the illusion that we were far, far above the clouds. All the seats and tables were white, with golden trim that complemented the marble statues in little alcoves along the walls. There was definitely a theme going on. Greco-roman, maybe? Angelic? Some weird mix of the two?

Deus ex seemed to care as much as I did about it all. She was at the bar, sitting down with her elbows on the table and a fruity cocktail sitting before her.

“You old enough to drink?” I asked as I sat next to her. I pointed to her drink while glancing at the bartender. “One of whatever that is.”

“It’s virgin,” Deus Ex said. “And you probably wouldn’t like it. It’s very sweet.” She glanced up to me. “How are you doing?”

“Meh,” I said honestly. “Long ass day. Sorta-betrayals, explosions going off in my face, some... bullshit AI therapy sessions that shouldn’t have worked but did, a little.”

Deus Ex chuckled. “That sounds like a normal Tuesday to me,” she said. She moved her drink closer, twisted the straw around, then took a long sip from it. “Oh, this is good,” she said.

The bartender set an identical glass in front of me, nodded, then walked off.

I hesitated. I didn’t want to take my helmet off. It was safe, it was--

“No one’s going to blow your head off,” Deus Ex said. “And if they do, I’ll avenge you, or whatever.”

“Wouldn’t you be dead too?” I asked.

She shook her head. “This isn’t my main body.”

I turned towards her. She looked plenty real to me. A pipsqueak in form-fitting armour that looked real high-tech, glowy bits and all. “What’s that mean?” I asked.

“It means that I’m at home right now, and that this body’s remote controlled. You don’t think I’d go out in the field wearing this little armour, right?”

“Shit,” I said. “How many samurai are like that?”

“A few,” Deus Ex said. “Most are who they seem. It’s not a big deal. Really, it depends on the catalogues they’ve invested in. A lot of them have some way of keeping you alive. Those that don’t invest in something like that tend to... not stay alive, I guess. Or they become really good at ensuring that all the threats around them are taken care of before they might get hurt.”

“Scary,” I said. I took off the helmet and breathed in for a moment as I set it next to the drink. I took a sip, then recoiled while a shiver ran down my spine. “Oh, shit, that is sweet,” I said.

“I did tell you.”

I shook my head to ward off the sensation. “Did you call me over just to prove that you like sweet things that much? Or was there, like, business?”

“It’s business,” Deus Ex said. “That’s all everything is, really. Even the fun parts.”

“Fine. What’s this business then? You going to help with my sewer problem?”

Deus Ex looked up to me, blank and confused for a moment before understanding flashed in her eyes. “Oh, that. No, I’m here for something more important.”

“And what’s that?”

“We’re going to get another incursion soon. A lot of them, actually. And they’re going to be the worse sort. We’re going to need every samurai we can get working as hard as they can to weather this one.”

“Another incursion? We had one days ago.”

Deus Ex licked her lips. “Things are... complicated. I’ll invite you and Gomorrah over to my place. We can go over things there, where it’s more private. Suffice to say, there’s going to be another.”

“Aren’t they supposed to be once every three months?” I asked.

“No, that’s what people who don’t understand statistics say. On average, in a year, yes, there will be about one every three months. But, if you look at the actual dates, they tend to be grouped up. Three months is the average time between them, but only because there might be a long time between two sets of incursions.”

“Right,” I said. I could do that much figuring out in my head. “So, another fun romp, killing aliens and getting points and all that?”

“Something like that,” Deus Ex said. “It’s going to be a serious one. Not a deep incursion, but a wide one.”

“I don’t know the difference,” I admitted.

“I’ll show you, but not here. Clear your schedule for tomorrow afternoon.” She grinned, and whatever seriousness she cultivated disappeared with that cocky smile. “You’ve never been to space, right?”

***