Ciphers by Matt Rogers (ereader with dictionary .txt) 📕

narrowly prevented the crisis, but they hadn’t been able to prevent the collapse of the stock market. The past six months had seen a financial downturn like nothing that had come before it, but the upswing was on the horizon. Jobs vanished, budgets tightened, portfolios were torn to shreds, but the people endured. Just as they always had. The economy was almost out of the woods.

King and Slater had sat around for months, practically tearing their hair out as they watched the economy reduced to ruin because of their own shortcomings and failures. They’d been desperate for a gig. Then Nepal happened. They’d been sent on a mad journey to the peak of Gokyo Ri, and it had almost taken their lives. Now, a couple of months after that, they were back in the same monotonous funk, with no contracted employment in sight.

Times were changing.

And so were the rules.

So King said, ‘Nothing. I’m free.’

Rory said, ‘You know a good bar around here?’

‘Slater does.’

Rory seemed to sense King’s hesitancy. ‘If you don’t want to share—’

King held up a hand. ‘You’re not pressuring me into anything. If I didn’t want to talk, I wouldn’t talk.’

‘You probably shouldn’t.’

‘Says who?’

‘The people who pay me, I’m sure.’

‘They pay me, too,’ King said. ‘But they don’t control me. That was the agreement.’

‘You mentioned Slater…’

King nodded. A handful of details had slipped through the cracks over the eight months he and Rory had worked together.

‘Who is he?’ Rory said.

‘We work together.’

‘Same position?’

‘Yeah.’

‘He lives next door?’

‘How’d you know that?’

‘I passed him in the corridor once. He had eyes like yours.’

‘They’re different colours.’

‘That’s not what I’m talking about.’

King raised an eyebrow.

Rory said, ‘Cold.’

‘Right.’

‘If he does what you do,’ Rory said, ‘how come I’m not training him?’

‘Slater trains himself. He’s always preferred it that way.’

‘He must be confident to take it into his own hands.’

‘More like blessed,’ King said. ‘He’s a freak of nature.’

‘And you aren’t?’

‘We’ve fought twice. He won both times.’

Still sitting, Rory said, ‘Holy shit. How good is he?’

‘About the same as me. Maybe, if I had to admit it, slightly better.’

‘Can I train him? Just once? It’d be a privilege.’

A wry smile crept over King’s lips. ‘Slater doesn’t like being told what to do. I don’t think he’ll ever conform to what’s expected of him. He’s not exactly a model athlete.’

‘Where is he now?’

King didn’t respond.

‘Out on the town?’ Rory said.

As the sun fell over New York, King said, ‘How about that drink?’

3

Will Slater wasn’t exactly sure how he ended up at Palantir, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to make the most of it.

The deep tech house music throbbed through the underground club, most of its floorspace drenched in a combination of grimy darkness and toxic neon. It had the aesthetic of a grungy futuristic cantina, packed with horrendously expensive ornamentation made to look like it cost pennies on the dollar. The difference between a truly grungy venue and Palantir was the fact that you had to reserve an entry ticket four months in advance if you wanted a chance in hell of getting in.

Once you were in, you were expected to spend, and spend, and spend.

And then spend some more.

Or you’d get shown the door.

Sure, Slater had enough money to buy the whole damn building, but it hadn’t been his intended destination. Before this he’d been drinking alone in a small hole-in-the-wall bar in Koreatown made to look like a speakeasy. Hunched over the oak countertop, deep in his own thoughts. The place was packed with Manhattan socialites gearing up for a big night out on the town, all more than willing to chat with strangers, but he hadn’t come for conversation. He’d come to throw back whiskies somewhere that felt reputable, rather than drinking alone in his penthouse.

There was the attention, as always. He drew women like moths to a flame, and he couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. He never put on a show to seize attention — particularly not tonight. He sat there and cradled his tumbler and sipped at the fine liquor and burned a hole in the countertop with his unblinking stare. Dwelling on the past. Dwelling on the times he’d failed.

Still, despite his guarded nature, two ladies in their late twenties approached him in quick succession. Both clad head-to-toe in designer-wear, both stunning. They put on a respectable performance of pretending not to see him until they were right next to him ordering a drink, but one of the benefits of his career was a knack for tactical awareness.

So he knew exactly what they were doing.

He didn’t respond to their initial queries. He didn’t let them break the ice.

He stared into his drink, as antisocial as he could ever remember being.

He let them float away of their own accord.

And then someone shook him out of his stupor in a way he least expected.

A guy in a charcoal grey suit that looked like it cost the equivalent of a mid-sized family car dropped into the stool next to Slater. He had his shirt open at the collar, exposing a muscular chest, and his expression was laid-back. Which didn’t exactly fit the mould of high-strung, always-wired types that usually purchased twenty-thousand dollar suits. The guy had curly brown hair and tanned skin and piercing blue eyes and an easy smile, and he didn’t look anything like your typical investment banker or tech guru, which was what Slater had initially assumed.

So he had some initial curiosity, but then the guy said, ‘You look like you’re in killer shape, man.’

Slater half-smiled and shook his head. ‘Sorry, brother. I don’t swing that way.’

The guy froze in place, and Slater watched his brain make rapid calculations behind his bright eyes. Then the man laughed. ‘No, no — that’s not what I meant. Sorry. I’ve had too much to drink.’

‘Haven’t we all?’

‘I just quit my job.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Aren’t you going to ask why?’

‘I’m not exactly in a talkative mood.’

The guy raised both hands. ‘Understood, my man. I’ll leave you to it.’

Then he ordered a beer and took