Alita

by Pat Cadigan

  The crew kept moving until they came to an open-air café four or five blocks west of the market where Hugo had first picked up their trail. They went in and commandeered the place, driving out the other customers while getting grabby with the waitresses. They were so full of themselves, Hugo thought he could have ridden his gyro right through the centre of the café without any of them noticing, or at least not right away. Hugo parked his gyro around the side of the building, put his hood up and sat on the curb in front to watch them surreptitiously.

  The leader was really stuck on himself. He had gold tips in his hair now and there was more to the design tattooed on the right side of his neck. And, Hugo saw finally, he was wearing the bracelet.

  At first he was surprised—he’d have thought the guy would give it to a girlfriend or sell it. Nope, not this guy—it was all for him, everything they did, the whole operation. He was just going to keep doing whatever he wanted until somebody stopped him. The guy probably couldn’t even imagine that happening. He was like a robot, not even a cyborg. He was a meat-robot and all he did was all he knew how to do.

  Hugo decided he’d had enough: of the crew, of south-town—of Iron City, for that matter, and of everyone who just stood by and let any kind of shit happen, whether they were people who got victimised on the street, or Factory slaves who replaced their bodies piece by piece so they could die with almost nothing left that made them human.

  CHAPTER 6

  “I wanted to do this months ago,” Vector said, sitting across from her at the small table set up in his office, which was ridiculously large and luxurious to the point of vulgar. “But I thought it would be… unseemly. Uncouth. As if my interest in you were less than worthy.”

  Chiren didn’t quite smile at him over the top of her wine glass. He was talking the way he thought people talked in Zalem. Wanting her to believe she wasn’t the only highly evolved intellect marooned in the dirt with lower forms of life. He was trying to make the whole evening as much like Zalem as possible—the brilliant-white tablecloth, the wine obviously pilfered from a shipment meant for the flying city. It made her glad she was wearing the cream-coloured tunic and trousers she’d had on the day they had been exiled. They were the only things she had from her lost life, and she hadn’t worn them again until tonight. Vector knew her clothes were from Zalem and he couldn’t take his eyes off them, his gaze running over her arms, her shoulders, her chest with an eagerness and avidity that veered between wonder and lust.

  “I’ve worked on your Motorball players for years.” Chiren took a sip of wine, refusing to let herself enjoy it. She had to keep her wits about her. She was a sheep eating dinner with a wolf posing as a shepherd; she couldn’t let her guard down for a moment. “In that time you’ve always treated me with respect. I have no reason to expect anything else.” Expect respect, expect respect; the words echoed in her mind nonsensically, as if she were already drunk.

  “You and your husband were a package deal,” Vector said. “Two highly skilled cyber-surgeons, turning my Paladins into winners while funding your work with the less fortunate. Of which there’s no shortage in Iron City. I so admired what you two were doing that I could never bring myself to take offence at Ido’s—oh, lack of warmth, call it. I put it down to overwork.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Chiren said, looking into his eyes. She could do sincere.

  Two flunkies in formalwear came in with appetisers—baked Camembert, or what passed for it in Iron City, with small round pieces of garlic toast. Chiren noticed Vector waited a fraction of a second to see what she did, then copied her exactly. The observe-and-mimic strategy was probably how he’d survived for so long.

  “You’ve always been more approachable,” Vector told her. “No matter how hard you’ve been working, you remain even-tempered. I put that down to your innate character.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Chiren said again, letting herself smile. “But I think it only means you weren’t around when I bit someone’s head off.”

  Vector chuckled. “If you bit anyone’s head off I’m sure they had it coming. Actually, I’d wanted to invite both you and Ido to dinner to show my appreciation. And my admiration. But you were both so busy, working so hard all the time. If you weren’t at the track, you were at the clinic. There never seemed to be any time in your schedule to relax. Although I wasn’t so sure how relaxing it would be for you to have dinner with the boss.” He paused, looking at her expectantly.

  “Well, that really was all Ido and I did together,” Chiren said. “Work, I mean. At the clinic, at the track. Ido never learned how to shut it off. In all the time I knew him, I don’t think he ever slept more than four hours in a night, and usually not that much. I’d wake up and find him at his workbench, fiddling with a circuit or a chip.”

  “Really.” Vector was gazing at her more intently now. “What kind?”

  Chiren was about to tell him about the integration chip that had been Ido’s obsession when the flunkies came back for the empty dishes. Vector raised a subtle finger and she nodded to show she understood. She’d finished the Camembert without even noticing. It had been a long time since she’d eaten anything that good.

  “Sorry,” he said when the flunkies were gone. “I do trust my staff, but I also do my best not to add to their burden of discretion. They work hard enough as it is.”

  If Vector had ever cared how hard his employees worked, it hadn’t been in this lifetime, Chiren thought. “As I’ve pointed out already, you’re very kind,” she said.

  Two different men brought in the main course: Filet mignon for her and a very large, very bloody prime rib for him, accompanied by baked potatoes with sour cream and butter, and green beans. The butter was too yellow and the green beans looked like they might glow in the dark. Vector had added colour to his filched foodstuffs to match his idea of how fancy food would look in Zalem. Chiren found it both absurd and pathetic.

  “Is that all right?” Vector asked, nodding at her steak. “I thought it was something you would like. Unless you’d rather have the prime rib?” He put on a mildly concerned expression. “Or have I guessed wrong altogether and you’re a vegetarian?”

  “I’m most definitely not a vegetarian and filet mignon is exactly right,” she assured him. “The name means ‘dainty filet’ and it comes from the tenderloin area on either side of a beef animal’s spine. It’s cut from the smaller end, where the lesser-used muscles are located, which is why it’s so tender.” She smiled at the bodyguards as they arranged the other dishes on the table for them. They were also in formalwear. It made her wonder how he’d found suits to fit them with their enhancements. Lots of alterations, she supposed—unless he’d actually had them made. If so, he’d gone to a great deal of trouble and expense for her. What did he want, besides the obvious? Was it real and, if so, could she actually give it to him?

  “The term filet mignon was first used in a story by some writer way back in the early twentieth century,” Chiren added as the bodyguards marched out of the room, “but the story title and the author’s name escape me.”

  “Maybe more wine will help,” Vector said, giving her a refill she didn’t actually need. They were drinking from crystal wine goblets Vector claimed he’d found in a stash hidden in the Factory before the War three centuries ago. He made the same claim about a lot of things, but he might have been telling the truth about these.

  Chiren forced her wandering mind back to the situation at hand. “I hope hearing about my steak didn’t overburden your men,” Chiren said.

  “It’s probably the most education they’ve had for—” Vector made a face of mock-concentration. “Ever. I had no idea you were so knowledgeable about cuts of beef.”

  “Well, I am a surgeon,” she said.

  Vector surprised her by throwing back his head and roaring laughter at the skylight above them. “That one hit me square on the funny bone,” he said when he wound down.

  Chiren smiled. She was tempted to give him a lesson
about the humerus and decided to save it in case he annoyed her. His cultured mask had begun to slip a little; he was starting to look at her the way he looked at his prime rib, and it wasn’t just her clothes he was appreciating now.

  She had to admit she was surprised at how well the dinner had been prepared. If it wasn’t as good as anything she had ever had in Zalem, it was close enough. Did Vector have an exiled chef chained to the wall in the kitchen? Maybe someone Nova had thrown over the side for burning his toast?

  “This really is excellent,” she told Vector. “My compliments to your chef.”

  He laughed again. “I’ll pass your compliments along.” Then he sobered. “I wanted so much to please you, to make everything perfect. You deserve the best of everything—the best food, the best clothes. And a palace to live in, rather than three rundown rooms with a view of nothing.”

  And he was just the man to give them to her, Chiren thought. The only man who could, anyway. She took a sip of wine and Vector poured more into her glass as soon as she put it down again. Like magic, the bodyguards appeared with another bottle. They poured the last of the old bottle into Vector’s glass, then opened the new one and added an inch to hers before they left.

  “Please tell me you don’t eat like this every night,” Chiren said with a small laugh.

  “No, I don’t. I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” Vector replied, sounding a bit wistful. “I have so many responsibilities that I can seldom take this much time for a meal. Besides, I’d feel silly doing this alone.” He paused, staring at his wine glass with a thoughtful expression. “As I get older I find I’m becoming less and less content to be by myself. An active mind needs stimulating company. Someone to talk to. I’m starved for conversation that has nothing to do with business, Motorball or making sure everyone’s doing their jobs right.” His gaze slid away from the glass to her. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you.”

  Chiren tensed a little. If he started talking about her daughter, if he even said her name aloud, she would throw her wine in his face.

  “As I said, I did want to reach out to you before now,” he went on, “to let you know that I was thinking of you, that I felt for you after such a terrible tragedy.”

  Chiren kept her face neutral as her fingers tightened ever so slightly on the stem of her glass.

  “When I found out you were alone, I wanted to reach out to you even more, to say—” His voice trailed off and he frowned. “To be frank, I had no idea what to say to you. I still don’t. What you’ve been through is completely outside my experience. I was afraid if I said the wrong thing to you I might lose you as well as Ido. I didn’t want that. At the same time, I didn’t know if this was a permanent break or if Ido might want to reconcile—”

  “He won’t,” said Chiren. “Ido is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to do. As far as I know, anyway. We haven’t spoken since I left.”

  “So you left him,” Vector said. He added more wine to her glass; she didn’t remember drinking any but apparently she had. “I was afraid you were going to tell me he’d thrown you out. I might not have been able to stop myself from, ah, talking to him about his bad manners. Even if it’s not my place.”

  “No, I left of my own free will,” Chiren said, keeping her tone light. “Motorball gave me—gives me—what I need. Work I can throw myself into. It’s been—well, practically a lifeline.”

  “I’m glad it’s helped you.” Vector had on his compassionate face now. “But if I’m honest, I’ve benefited greatly.” Pause. “Which almost sounds as if I’m reaping rewards from your pain.”

  Thanks for letting me know, Chiren told him silently, keeping her face neutral. Spinning pain into gold was a succinct description of what Vector did for a living. “Of course not,” she said.

  Last chance to run, said a little voice in her mind. If you don’t go now, you may never get out. If you do run, don’t stop till you get to the clinic. Dyson will take you back like you were never gone, and you’re still in your child-bearing years—

  Chiren killed the thought and shoved it away as hard as she could. Bring a child into this world—down in the dirt? Doom an innocent soul to the tender mercies of Iron City, watch a pure spirit become tainted with corruption? And for what—a no-hope future as either a Factory slave at best or a Hunter-Warrior’s bounty at worst? Had she lost her mind?

  Maybe. But she wasn’t brain-dead. She was going to stay right where she was, finish this incredible Zalem-worthy steak dinner courtesy of the most powerful man at ground level, a man who was willing to go to a lot of trouble to keep her happy—or at least keep some of her appetites satisfied—while satisfying his own, of course. But what the hell, it was more than she’d ever get anywhere else.

  “I’m afraid I’m full,” she said as she finished the last bite of her steak. “I’ve barely touched the baked potato, and it’s awful to let it go to waste, but—”

  “But nothing,” Vector said, waving one hand, and for the first time Chiren noticed his fingernails were manicured. “My chef is brilliant. Nothing will go to waste.” He smiled. “Would you prefer to delay dessert and just have coffee for now?”

  “You read my mind,” Chiren said, reading his. She was tempted to ask what they’d be having for dessert but she didn’t think he’d get the joke.

  The coffee came in a silver service that made Chiren gape openly. The only other time she had seen something like this had been in the apartment of the man who had told her and Ido why they had to leave Zalem.

  “I think I’ve impressed you,” Vector said, studying her face. “Have I? Yes? Pardon me for feeling pleased with myself about that.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised at anything,” Chiren said. “Not after that meal, anyway.”

  “Like the crystal wine glasses, I found it hidden away in the Factory. Stashed by someone before the War but never retrieved for reasons that are only too easy to imagine.” Vector’s pleased expression had turned to smugness. Chiren supposed he’d never needed to know the difference between the two.

  “I am impressed,” she told him. “So little from before the War survived. It’s amazing—a work of art.”

  “Then please allow me to give it to you as a gift,” Vector said. “A work of art for a woman who is herself a work of art.”

  You know, of course, that after tonight he will never talk to you like this again, said the voice in her mind. This is just to get you into—

  She shut the voice out. It wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know.

  * * *

  As soon as they finished their coffee he led her to his bedroom. There was no explanation, no suggestion. This was simply what came next on the schedule, and since she hadn’t talked even vaguely about leaving, he’d assumed they had come to an understanding.

  His bed was enormous, about as large as the living room in the dump she called home, she thought. He took his time undressing her—he’d waited all night to get his hands on her clothes and now the magic time had come. He rubbed the material between his fingers, marvelling at the softness and the subtle glint from threads that were neither metallic nor cloth but something else.

  She moved to undress him but he told her to climb into bed and feel the sheets instead. The product of nano-machines that were his and his alone, he told her, unavailable even in Zalem. No one else had sheets that felt so good against bare skin.

  Then he had dessert.

  She had expected to be disappointed, and he delivered with no surprises. Vector knew what he liked and he knew what a woman’s body was supposed to like, or at least respond to. He handled her expertly. It was all so impersonal, she wondered whom he was really in bed with. Maybe a composite created from different experiences.

  And all without a word. He didn’t speak to her at all. When she started to say something to him at the beginning, he had looked meaningfully into her eyes and pressed his finger to her lips. Hush. She had listened to the sound of his breathing and her own and the whisper
of the sheets, and that was all.

  When he finally fell away from her he looked pleased and gratified; mission accomplished. If she had broken his concentration with pillow talk it might have taken him forever to get himself back into the right frame of mind.

  The ceiling in his bedroom was high, not like the one in her miserable, cramped flat. Fortunately, she’d never have to go back there again. He’d send his flunkies to collect her things for her. She lived here now, in the penthouse atop the Factory. Not really a palace but as close as she’d ever get in this lifetime.

  And this was the best bed she would ever sleep in, with its miraculously soft sheets. He would dress her in handmade designer clothes, which she would wear even when she was working on his Paladins at the Motorball track. As long as she made champions for him, he would make sure she stayed shiny, elegant and in good repair, just like everything else he owned. She was going to live better than she ever had since her expulsion from Zalem.

  The food would be great too, just like the clothes and the sheets on the bed. And the sex would be sex. This man would never make love to her, but that didn’t matter; she was pretty sure he’d never made love to anybody.

  Well, she hadn’t come here for love or great sex or even good sex. Vector had much more than that to offer. A man who wasn’t afraid to skim from shipments intended for Zalem obviously knew the authorities were looking the other way. Which meant he had some seriously important connections—the kind that might know how to get her out of the dirt, off the ground, and back up to where the air was clean and bright.

  Why else would the sex be so bad?

  CHAPTER 7

  When the distinguished lady cyber-surgeon finally dropped off, Vector got up and put on his silk pyjamas and robe. The pyjamas were adorned with alternating bands of silver; the robe was the colour of excellent Shiraz. Someone had once told him they made him look like old-time royalty, the lord of the manor. Vector no longer remembered which of the various women who had passed through his bedroom had come up with that insightful description of his appearance. Memorability wasn’t a trait he looked for in the women he invited into his bedroom. Chiren was the lone exception and only because she was useful.