Put The Sepia On Read Free Page A

buckets, which might actually work out because he’s in so far over his head he’s going to need something to bail with.
    “Friend of the family,” I say.
    “You don’t have a family, old friend.”
    “Don’t have any friends, either,” I say. He stops smiling.
    “Well that’s not nice, pal, when I’ve been so good to you over the years.” He’s not wrong; he may be a murderous man-monster, but he’s a murderous man-monster who made me a lot of money and saved my bacon a time or two… when he wasn’t too busy trying to cook it.
    “Years, Lime, years. And I did ok by you, too,” and much to my surprise I’m not lying either; Lime’s still alive because of me, although I don’t think either of us are too happy about it.
    “Well,” he says as that toothy grin comes back and Robert struggles to keep down whatever it was he was drinking, “you and her. I assume she’s slinking around somewhere, ready to change the game?” Lime’s got a memory. And a couple of knife wound memos on the back of his left shoulder in case he forgets. Both came signed and delivered.
    “ I haven’t seen her,” I say, and I haven’t lied to him in sentences. It’s like speaking a second language. His eyes narrow. He’s trying to decide if I’m a great liar or terrible at telling the truth. Can’t it be both?
    “Me neither,” I can’t tell if he’s saying it with relief or suspicion. Can’t it be both? “Anyways, I suppose I should show you what our lad Robert’s been doing to help us out. That is why you’re here, isn’t it old boy?” I don’t scare easy. But that smile will haunt my dreams if I live long enough to fall asleep.
    He (and five or six of his unkempt compatriots) escort us down a long hallways with nice red carpet on the floor and walls. It doesn’t do a great job hiding the bloodstains, but I only count three of them, so by Dog-side of the track standards, we’re getting a tour of a real five star joint.
    At the end of the hallway there are stairs. Looks like we’re going down them. Smells like Robert doesn’t want to. Lime’s been chattering away the whole time with “old boy” this and “chum” that. He hasn’t noticed that I’m not listening because he hasn’t stopped talking. That same habit scored him the limp that slows our descent.
    A ll of a sudden we’re in a warehouse, and I don’t like what I see. Boxes and boxes of old-make weaponry, the kind they used back before the Corporation put a leash on things. Weapons that have been illegal, and unmanufactured, for decades. Weapons no man could use, physically, or would use, morally.
    To my left there’s a four-foot shoulder cannon propped against a wall; the barrel is wider than most bowling balls. I know what it shoots, too. Nine pound spiked steel cannonballs that release a few thousand volts of electricity on impact. It fires seven per second, and with the right rigging, can hold about eighty. It was designed to fight helicopters and demolish buildings, but I figure in a pinch it could probably slow a fella down in a pretty permanent way, you know, if it had to.
    To my right, there’s an old-make Mech, designed for Dogs instead of Corporation trained pilots. It doesn’t handle as well as the models the Corporation uses today, but that’s ok because it’s three times the s ize and has enough power to lift seventy-five tons… per hand.
    And it goes on and on like that for a thousand feet. A whole bunch of classic (and restored) raider bikes, d iscontinued because no human is big enough to ride them and they’re twice as fast as anything cost-effective and man-sized. Lime’s hoarded about three hundred of them. All kinds of fun explosives, and lots of big blades, spikes, and bludgeons on the ends of heavy chains that no man could lift... but a Dog with a decent workout routine can handle ‘em one handed. I’m standing in an armory.
    “Robert works as a clerk for the Repossession Division,” Lime explains with a