Black Man / Thirteen

“Nice ride,” said Marsalis as he got in.

He’d taken the front seat. Sevgi rolled her eyes and climbed in the back. Norton gri

“Thanks,” he said, and gu

“You can put me in a hotel,” Marsalis said, yawning. “Wherever suits. I’m not fussy.”

Sevgi faked a yawn of her own and slumped back in the seat. “Let’s sort that out tomorrow. Too much hassle coordinating it all now. You can stay at my place tonight. Tom, I’ll bring him in and meet you at the office for lunch. Somewhere on the mezzanine. Say about twelve?”

Peripheral vision showed her Norton trying to make eye contact in the mirror. His face was the carefully immobile deadpan she associated with his witnessing of mistakes made. He used it a lot in briefings with Nicholson. She gazed steadfastly out of the side window.

“He could stay with me, Sev. I’ve got the space.”

“So do I.” She made it come out casual. Still watching the dull metal ribbon of the crash barrier as it whipped smoothly along beside the car in the gloom. A teardrop taxi blipped past on the opposing side of the highway. “Anyway, Tom, it’d take you the best part of an hour just to clear out all that junk you keep in the spare room. All I have to do is crank down the futon. Just drop us off, it’ll be fine.”

Now she turned and met his eyes in the mirror. Matched him deadpan for deadpan. He shrugged and punched up some music on the car’s sound system, ancient Secession-era punk no one played anymore. Detroitus or Error Code; Sevgi never could tell the two bands apart despite Norton’s best efforts to instruct her. She settled back to the outside view again and let the vitriol of it wash over her, lulled by the familiar high-stepping bass lines and the stuttering, hacking guitars. She found her mouth forming fragments of lyrics:

Got what you want at last, got your

Closed little world

Got your superhero right and wrong

And your fuckin’ flag unfurled

Marsalis stirred, leaned forward to read the player display, and sank back again without comment. Guitar fury skirled out of the speakers. The car slammed on through the night.

When they pulled up outside Sevgi’s building, Norton killed the engine and got out to see them to the door. It was a nice gesture, but it felt wrong—Harlem hadn’t seen serious crime in decades, and anyway, in among the carbon-fiber skeletons of the market stalls, figures were already moving around with crates, setting up. The place would be coming to noisy life in another couple of hours. Sevgi made a mental note to make sure the windows were all tight shut before she slept. She smiled wearily at Norton.

“Thanks, Tom. You’d better get moving.”

“Yeah.”

He hesitated.

“See you on the mez, then,” she said brightly.

“Uh, yeah. Twelve o’clock?”

“Yeah, twelve’s good.”

“Where’d you want to eat? Henty’s or—”

“Sure. Henty’s.” Backing away now. “Sounds good.”

He nodded slowly and went back to the car. She raised a hand in farewell. He pulled out, looking back. They watched him out of sight before Sevgi turned to the door of the building and showed the sca

“Sixth floor,” she said, hefting her shoulder bag. “No elevator.”

“Yeah? Why’s that then?”

“Period charm. You coming?”

They took the stairs at a trudge. LCLS panels blinked awake on each floor as they climbed, then died to dimness in their wake. The bright white glow shone on pre-Secession grafitoform murals and embedded holoshots of the building in its various stages of growth. Sevgi found herself noticing them for the first time in months as consciousness of the man at her back lit everything for her the same way as the LCLS. She bit back the impulse to play tour guide.

In the apartment, she went from room to room, showing him where things were. He went to use the bathroom as soon as she was done. She checked the windows while he was in there, set the locks, organized herself. Fetched sheets and a quilt from the cupboard in the en suite. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she took the bed linen down, and didn’t recognize the look on her face. There was a warm, irritable confusion rising in her as to how she should do this. Back in the living room, she powered up the futon and remote-extended it. She was putting on the sheets when he came out and joined her.

“All yours,” she said, finishing and standing back up.

“Thank you.”

They stood looking at the crisp, clean sheets. He seemed to be waiting for something. Maybe in response, a circuit clicked shut somewhere inside her. She put her hands in her jacket pockets and hooked his gaze.

“The door’s double-locked,” she said. “It’s DNA-coded.”

His brow creased. Silent query.

Ah fuck it, here we go. “You may as well know this now, Marsalis. You’re going to find out sooner or later, so it may as well come from me. My last relationship was a thirteen. He’s dead now, but I know how that shit works.” She tapped fingertips to her temple. “I know how you work up here. Right now, you’re probably mapping the shortest possible route across town to East Forty-fifth and First.”

No visible reaction. She plunged on.

“And you’re right, it’s not far. Three, four klicks and cross the lines, you’re home free. UN territory, right here in the heart of New York. I’m not sure how they’d get you out after that, but my guess is the powers-that-be here in the Union wouldn’t kick much. They’ve got a better working relationship with the UN than with COLIN most of the time. Truth comes down, they don’t like us much better than they do the Republic.”

“That must be very upsetting for you.”

“You’re too kind. So, like I said, I know what’s in your mind. I don’t even blame you much. It’s not like you’re a free actor here—you’re locked into something you’d probably rather not be a part of. You’re under duress, and I know how badly that plays in the thirteen mind-set. You’re looking for a way to pick the locks or smash down the door.”

Ethan’s words. He used to grin as he said them, that something-burning grin.

She waited to see what he’d do. If he’d move.

He didn’t. He raised an eyebrow instead, looked down at the open blade of his right hand. She recognized the displacement training, and a faint shiver ran through her.

He cleared his throat.

“Well, it’s nice to know I’m so well understood. But you see, Ms. Ertekin, there seems to be a major flaw in your procedures here. If I’m the ravening, duress-shattering thirteen motherfucker you—”

“I didn’t say—”

“—have me down as, then what’s to stop me caving in your skull here and now, slashing you open to get some warm blood for your precious DNA locks, and then doing my predawn sprint across town after all?”

“The lock only works off saliva.”

He stared at her. “I could always scrape it out of your dead mouth.”

“Do you think you’re going to scare me, Marsalis?”

“I couldn’t care less if I scare you or not.” For the first time since she’d met him, his voice tightened toward anger. “You were fucking some burned-out genetic augment who said he was a thirteen, and you want to delude yourself I’m him, that’s your problem. I don’t know what I symbolize to you, Ertekin, what you want me to symbolize, but I’m not up for it. I’m not a fucking number, I’m not a fucking gene code. I’m Carl Marsalis, I think we met already.” He stuck out his hand bluntly, mock-offer of a clasp, then let it fall. “But in case it hasn’t sunk in, that’s all I am. Got a problem with that, then fuck off and deal with it somewhere I don’t have to listen to you.”