The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [73]
"So now you move a little drug for him sometimes. Hold hot weapons for him sometimes."
Jones frowned at his gloved hands, knotted like mating tarantulas. "I'm disappointed. I thought Moodring was more discreet than that."
"Please don't be angry at him; I told you, we're old pals. So, anyway. should I call you Mr. Jones?" Parr smiled broadly. "Magnesium? Or is it Mag?"
"It's all equally meaningless."
"I've never really talked with a culture before."
"We prefer 'shadow.'"
"All right. Mr. Shadow. So how old are you?"
"Five."
"Pretty bright for a five-year-old."
"Memory-encoded long-chain molecules in a brain drip. I knew my job before I even got out of the tank."
"Of course. Five, huh? So that's about the age when they start replacing you guys, right? They say that's when you start getting uppity. losing control. That's why you escaped from the Plant, isn't it? You knew your time was pretty much up."
"Yes. I knew what was coming. Nine cultures in my crew were removed in two days. They were all about my age. My supervisor told me not to worry, but I knew."
"Cleaning house. Bringing in the fresh meat. They kill them, don't they? The old cultures. They incinerate them."
"Yes."
"I heard you killed two men in escaping. Two real men."
"Moodring is very talkative."
"It isn't just him. You killed two men. I heard they were looking for
you. Call you 'hothead,' because of your tattoo. Can I see it?"
"That wouldn't be wise in public, would it?"
"You're not the only escaped clone around here, but you're right, we have work that demands discretion. Just that I like tattoos; I have some myself. See?" He rolled up a sleeve, exposing a dark mass that Jones only gave a half-glance. "I hear they get pretty wild with your tattoos. Someone must enjoy himself."
"Robots do the tattooing. They're just accessing clip art files. Most times it has nothing to do with our function or the name that was chosen for us. It's done to identify us, and probably for the amusement of our human coworkers. Decorative for them, I suppose."
"You haven't been caught, but you're still living in this area, close to the Plant. You must be stealthy. That's a useful quality. So where are you staying?"
"That's none of your concern. When you need me you leave a message with Moodring. When he sees me around he'll tell me. Moodring doesn't need to know where I live, either."
"He your friend, Moodring, or is it just business?"
"I have no friends."
"That's too bad. I think you and I could be friends."
"You don't know how much that means to me. So, why did you want me? Because I'm a culture? And if so, why?"
"Again...because you killed two men escaping the Plant. I know you can kill again, given the right incentive."
"I'm glad we've got to that. So what's my incentive?"
"Five thousand munits."
"For killing a man? That's pretty cheap."
"Not for a culture who never made a coin in his life. Not for a culture who lives in the street somewhere."
"So who am I to kill?"
"More incentive for you," said Nevin Parr, who smiled far too much for Jones's taste. Jones seldom smiled. He had heard that smiling was a trait left over from the animal ancestry of the birthers; it was a threatening baring of the fangs, in origin. The idea amused him, made him feel more evolved for so seldom contorting his own face in that way. After his smiling heavy pause, Parr continued, "The man we have in mind is Ephraim Mayda."
Jones raised his hairless eyebrows, grunted, and stirred his coffee. "He's a union captain. Well guarded. Martyr material."
"Never mind the repercussions; he's trouble for the people I'm working for, and worth the lesser trouble of his death."
Jones lifted his eyes in sudden realization. He almost plunged his hand into his coat for the pistol he had bought from Moodring. "You work for the Plant!" he hissed.
Parr grinned. "I work for myself. But never mind who hired me."
Jones composed himself outwardly, but his heart pulsed as deeply as the music. "The union is cozy with the syndy."
"The people I work