The Keymaker lived on the south side of Revolution Square in a penthouse above even the aerofarmers. The elevator ride was a trip by itself, breaking through a thin layer of clouds as it raced upwards. Remy smoked a cigarette in the elevator as it rose. He flicked open the pack. There were only a few left from the pack he’d picked up in the undercity. Thank God. The doors slid open without a sound and Remy’s boots immediately scuffed an eggshell white carpet. He sucked his teeth and shrugged. Someone would clean it up. The Keymaker knew how to live, and someone with that much money spent as much on the help as anything else.

The hallway was short but filled with art and collectibles from around the world. Pre-war carpets, artwork from ancient Europe, a scuffed bronze cat from the ruins of New York City. Remy knew these were just a selection. He’d acquired plenty more for the Keymaker over the years. Some were gifts, others jobs, but it paid to keep the Keymaker happy. A happy Keymaker meant profit for Remy. As he knocked on the door, he wondered how many favors those acquisitions had earned. A tiny man in a mechanical suit answered the door.

“When I saw the cameras, I didn’t believe it. Remy St. Claire, in the flesh, how the hell are ya!” The Keymaker’s body itself didn’t move and the voice that spoke was the machine’s, not his own. It’s robotic arms gestured Remy inside anyway and he stepped through into an opulent interior that shamed the relatively barren hallway outside. A towering combatmech - deactivated, of course - hunched like a street tough in the corner. He had not brought her that one. The Keymaker’s own suit was dwarfed next to it. His stomach twinged. If he had a new go-to guy, he would lose a lot of money. Money he couldn’t afford to lose. Well, no time to worry about that now.

“I thought it’s been too long since I’ve visited an old friend so I figured I’d stop in. How you doing, Frank? Georgia still giving you hell?” He placed his hat and his coat on hangers offered by a smooth-faced automaton servant and followed a robotic drone into the parlor where a pitcher of what smelled like margaritas made with entirely too much tequila already waited. He poured himself one.

“Oh, she’s back at corporate so I don’t see her, thank God. Retirement didn’t suit her, but damned if I don’t know what I would’ve done with her under my roof all hours of the day. It’s good when your woman loves her work. Leaves me to do what I like.” Frank’s mech suit followed him into the room and poured a margarita into a slot on the suit. A tube extended into his lifeless mouth. Remy sat in an overstuffed chair and looked down at the aerofarmers and Revolution Square far beneath them. A storm cloud was rolling in from the west, and the farmers scurried about their platforms covering their crops and animals while workers anchored to the neighboring buildings.

“Always figured you’d be the one to go back, what with your busy hands and all.” Remy winced. He’d been right about the margaritas and kept his lips tight through another sip.

Franklin and Georgia were engineers. Damned good ones too. They had been the ones who figured out the science that enabled Vasculators to interface with a vascular system instead of electricity and the internet. Course, not all folks thought Vascorp’s methods were decent, but whatever they’d done was in the name of the war so what else were those prisoners going to do? Most of the old European countries had called them war criminals but Remy always appreciated the ingenuity. They’d retired to New Madison after a century heading their research and development wing and Franklin was uncommonly interested in providing freelance services.

“I just can’t help tinkering.” He’d say.

Remy didn’t mind. He liked to talk and have drink so they had a mutual understanding. The Keymaker’s work didn’t come cheap but he’d always be willing to work for Remy if the project was interesting enough. It was a big selling point to his clients.

“I need your help, Frank.”

“Well, I didn’t think you came for the view or the drink, boy, so what is it?” Franklin’s voice was definitely synthetic though it inflected like he’d imagine an honest-to-God flesh version of Frank might. He suspected he or Georgia had programmed it themselves.

“I need a way into a place in the undercity. Needs to be quiet. Probably some security but I can’t imagine anything too exotic. Probably some ordinary defenses against me coming in. I can get you the location with specific coordinates. What’s it going to cost me?”

“Not even going to ask me if I can do it?” How could a robot sound insulted? Frank made it work. Remy flashed a smile and sipped his margarita. Strawberry was his favorite flavor. Not that it did much with the tequila but it was something.

“I wouldn’t insult you, I know you can do it. I’m just asking what it’ll cost me.”

His own margarita flowed through tubing and he laughed a mechanical, almost musical, laugh.

“I suppose that’s true. Tell me more about the job.”

Remy did. He told him about the Sapphire Lounge and about JD’s dismissal. He suspected there was some sort of vault or storage facility near or beneath the Lounge where he could find another clue about his case. Frank listened intently, not interrupting unless it was to refill his margarita reserve. The suit must filter some of the booze out because the man barely took a break between drinks. He finished up his story and shrugged.

“So, you think you can help?”

Frank considered him with the faint wheeze of mechanical breathes. HE was a programmer, true, but his skill wasn’t in writing new Vascs for specific uses. It would be near impossible anyway without the tech at Vascorp. Instead, Frank’s skill was in examining a situation, and developing a plan for using existing Vascs to achieve that goal. It was a fun puzzle for him and a great help to Remy. After several moments of uncomfortable silence, he spoke.

“I think there’s an easy way, but you’ll need a Pheromone, a Force, a slightly modified Volt, and probably a few more. When do you need this by?” Frank was a busy man despite his retirement. He knew he wasn’t Frank’s only patron, but he liked being his favorite.

“When is good for you? I have a few leads I should investigate first and I neglected to drop off Georgia’s birthday present so I certainly will need to return.” Frank couldn’t smile but Remy thought he could see him trying.

“Oh, you’re a sweet boy. She’ll be sad to have missed you. Come back tomorrow afternoon. I should have something by then.”

“Tomorrow afternoon it is. Thank you for the drinks, Frank. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Remy retrieved his hat and his coat and took the elevator down.

Of course, Remy didn’t really have any other leads but he liked Frank to think he was being diligent and not just using his brain like a crutch. Not that he’d care. Remy only did it for his own self-assurance.

Rain splattered on the pavement around him. November always seemed to be full of rain. The streets were emptying, folks scurrying away from the irradiated rain. Someone told him once why the Ghostfence could filter out radiation in the snow, but not as much in the rain, but Remy had no mind for that sort of stuff.

He walked a block with his collar pulled high, and ducked into the School to find a seat at the bar. A flat screen above the bar showed last week’s reruns of gladiator fights. New Madison’s team wasn’t very good; a bloody body draped in a once white shirt was being dragged off the dirt.

“Usual?” Luis placed a glass in front of him wearing his familiar dirty shirt and whiskey stained rag at his waist.

“Yeah, Luis, usual.”

He drank the gin and then another one. Remy stumbled home six hours later.