Nathalie’s hand on his arm stopped him before he had a chance to move towards an exit. “We are not leaving without another drink,” she purred.
Her breath was hot against Severidge’s neck. She had to lean in close; the music, such as it was, now sounded like a giant wave throwing a number of dolphins onto extremely sharp rocks, accompanied by almost subsonic throbbing bass.
Severidge turned to her, attempting to stare her down. The rush of an information hit had distracted him, but he had a reputation to maintain. Years of experience had taught him to be wary of letting sex get in the way of his job. “Our business…” he began, emphasizing the word in case she was turning this personal.
“…has only begun,” she finished, meeting his gaze. Her eyes locked on his. “You have paid for an evening, yes?”
Severidge cursed his stupidity. Thinking only of the data, he had neglected his cover. And here the lowly stage one courier was reminding him of his own damn job. He let Nathalie guide him back towards the bar while she ordered drinks. Severidge strained himself onto a stupidly tall chair, remembering just how much he hated plastileather pants, fashion symbol or not.
Nathalie was standing at the bar, surveying the room, waiting for drinks, and seeming to enjoy her hard, plastic beauty. At five foot eight, Severidge was not a tall man, and he didn’t compensate with a chem-fueled muscle package. Tonight his shaggy hair was gray streaked with olive drab. His hair, his clothes, and his youthful yet haunted look marked him as just another member of this crowd.
Nathalie returned with the drinks. Hers was clear, with something red swirling in it. His was just clear. She hopped onto the stool with more graced than he had managed.
"So, do you enjoy your work?" she asked.
He took a drink, wondering why she was asking. "Yeah, I guess I do. Information needs to be spread around. I'm almost an idealist. The money is also very good."
She smiled at this. "Yes. Ten more years, and I will pay off my implants."
Ten more years? Severidge thought. Best of luck. He tried to smile at her, in what he thought was a reassuring way. He wasn’t any good at being reassuring: He’d never had a chance to practice.
Nathalie didn’t return the smile. She sipped at her drink, sculpted lips touching a grimy pre-Collapse relic. She gestured towards his eyes. “You can see the data…in there.”
Severidge knew that it wasn’t a direct question. “Yes,” he replied, not answering the question that Nathalie had not asked.
She tossed her head, her multicolored hair picking up the multicolored lighting. “I have heard that such things still exist. I can only see the most basic information: time, money transfers…” She still hadn’t asked the question.
Severidge took a drink. It was harsh, but also oddly cloying. Like gasoline spiked with honey. “Yeah. There are a few rigs like this around. Not many. I’ve seen a couple.”
Nathalie was staring at him intently now. “How did you earn that? Did someone owe you a favor?”
Her gaze was too intense; he looked at the surface of the rusting table, thinking that a case of tetanus was probably one of the least of his worries right now. He could leave; he could just stand up, leave, and no one was likely to care. Not here, not in this place. Besides, he could handle the routine dangers of his business.
But this was something different for him.
“My name’s Will.”
“Will?”
“William. Will. Will Severidge.”
Nathalie sat back, looking surprised, almost shocked. She leaned forward again. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you wanted to know.”
“No, I…I did not mean…”
He stared at her. What the hell was he doing? Killing time, that’s what. Killing time, and then he’d leave, and get the hell out of this shoddy little hole that survived the worst catastrophe in human history by being a primitive backwater that the end of the world couldn’t touch, simply because it couldn’t be worse than what had been before.
The music, and the bodies, thudded on behind him. Severidge looked at her; she was still naïve, still hadn’t seen the worst of it. She’d learn soon, and it might as well be now.
“It’s a cannibalized rig,” he said, and took a drink.
“A…what?”
“Cannibalized. It’s not new; it can’t be. Most of this stuff can’t be build anymore.” Severidge expected Nathalie to be shocked by this. Instead, she smiled. “Yes, of course: cannibal. We call them ghouls, stealing from the dead.”
He responded with a short, bitter laugh. “Dead men don’t need data.”
“But you do. What did it take, to get that?”
Severidge finished his drink. “A lot. I was owned, just as much as you are now.”
Now Nathalie did look concerned. “Was?”
“Was. No longer.” He started thinking about building plans, and plotted paths to potential exits. Always good to review. He looked back at her, her face now overlaid with blueprints and area maps. “I work for myself. Now it looks like I’ll be able to pay off my debt to my old bosses.”
Nathalie was gripped her glass tightly, staring at him with an expression that could turn to cold hatred in a moment. “So you are still owned, even though you deny it. Who have I just helped? Are you working for the Church? Will you betray me?”
Severidge met her gaze without flinching. “No. No matter where I stand, the Church can go hang itself. They’d do the same to me.”
Nathalie’s expression softened slightly. “Then…no, we have said enough. We should not know more.” She slid off the chair, spilling her glass in the process. Deliberately, Severidge thought. Maybe that’s why there wasn’t a tetanus epidemic.
He shrugged, tipped over his glass, and joined her as she walked towards one of the freight doors streaked with rust and paint.
(to be continued…)