I focused on the situation, refusing to allow my attention to scuttle off on a tangent like a butter-bug scrambling from sudden bright light … but a tangent came along regardless and I thought about a fellow employee, a Natural, at Fogler & Twist. I barely recalled what she looked like, except for a huge, thick pair of glasses with aqua-blue frames that reflected light from ceiling stick-strips. As we drank tea, she’d started telling me about blood charms.
Blood charms were rare. The symbolism of blood was important and the quantity didn’t matter. A drop was enough … wet work that content providers loved. Ripping out beating hearts, cutting throats, or opening veins to drain a lifeform was for shock-value, nothing more. All that was important was that a drop of blood was placed on the charm, and it had to be blood from the person holding the charm; this created the connection that activated the charm.
The Empress was an economical woman; slit a throat and you had a charm, as well as silence. Blood was still needed, just much less of it if memory functioned correctly. The problem was that I had nothing on me that I could prick myself with. I touched the Circlet on my neck without thinking. The surface felt smooth, but I found a little point beside the jewel, sharp enough to draw blood.
I pressed my pricked finger on the jewel and felt the connection course through my body as the Circlet took stock of its host. The doors opened and I saw rotted clothes on a skeleton gathered to one side. With the doors open and the host dead, the Circlet would return to hibernation mode, be safe to carry. The Empress could use it again as required.
I stepped through and they closed behind. Above was a circular high-vaulted ceiling with beams of hammered silver. To the sides were walls were painted with systems maps … or so I thought. Upon closer inspection, I saw they were projections, views of the systems and planet clusters taken from impossible angles. What was unexpected: the projections were entirely up to date. A wide, jet-black stripe ran down one of the walls between the Sickle Quadrant and the Tellaborne system next to it, but I knew there was no such gap between them. Tellaborne snaked up to the borders of the Sickle, so it might have been a result of degradation in the charm over time.
The room was empty. No shelves or tables, no boxes, and no Claphain Jewel Box waiting to be scooped up by yours truly. I strolled around the perimeter. There was no disguised piece of furniture. Nothing. The same for walking across the floor. The ceiling wasn’t a real possibility. Coming a long way, at great effort, was the pay-off for treasure searches, but only successful ones received publicity.
Wondering absently how time evolved here, I started down the exit corridor, a gently sloping, curving tunnel with undecorated walls that provided dim lighting. If I was deeply disappointed, I could hardly imagine what Lincoln was feeling. Rehearsing what I’d say to her, the words slipped away as I spoke them aloud.
An outline of doors appeared as the tunnel leveled. I walked towards them and whatever lay on the other side … and found a small wooden box on the floor. It was plain, from the Screaming Forest of Gilpin, a place in the Molyleafy system at the borders of deep space. A small planet could be a very big asteroid; it had atmosphere, life and enough conflict. Someone, name unknown, had landed on Gilpin and went to the Assembly Building in the city of Xe, the leading force on the planet then. No details of what happened at the Assembly ever emerged, but that same day every lifeform and building in Xe were turned into trees. The trees didn’t scream, but visitors who stepped in, never emerged—it was their screams that rattled branches.
One enterprising lifeform pushed 2,000 slaves into the forest at the same time in one location. This overwhelmed the forest’s ability to consume everyone at once. A group was able to fell trees and drag them from the forest limits before being pushed back into the tree line. The wood from the trees scattered across the systems, and the veins running through were very distinctive.
The box on the floor, even if it empty, would be worth enough money to keep multiple generations spending recklessly, without reaching the end of the hoard. Even without touching it, I knew it wasn’t empty—this was the Claphain Jewel Box.
All that was missing was a large sparkly arrow with flickering lights pointing to the box. I suppressed a desire to scream. It would have been polite to let me “find” the damn thing in the room to the rear. This was a slap to the face. But subtlety wasn’t the issue; ensuring results was what mattered.
Annoying as it was, I couldn’t claim not to have found it. It was here and I was going to have to take it with me, regardless of whose plans I was following. Was there anything more aggravating than being a self-conscious pawn? Resting on one knee, I studied the wooden square of 30 centimetres with ruby-red veins trailing the surface and silvery lines in the grain. There were no visible joints or lid.
I saw nothing more upon closer inspection. I placed a hand on the wood, but it didn’t respond, which was a relief. I lifted it; it was lighter than expected and I stood up, tucking it under an arm. The doors opened before I reached them to reveal another set of stairs and I followed them down to the library, where Lincoln stood waiting, her eyes on the box. I was happy to give it to her, because the veins pulsed within the wood, a very unpleasant and threatening feeling.
She took it without comment and placed it in the carry-all, and we strolled to where Haddon waited. In silence, Haddon escorted us to the entrance and closed the door behind. It was wonderful to be in daylight, to feel the light breeze and smell the plants. We’d done the impossible, the ridiculous really, and there was nothing left to say. I considered how to put the final stage of the plan into action as we left the Red Halls and entered the park … and the attack took place.
The fire came from both sides of the path. Our attackers had a problem. They didn’t want to damage the box so they were aiming to disable us rather than kill us. Lincoln pushed me to the ground and I lay there trying not to get in her way.
The attack had activated the defenses in our uniforms, so the energy bolts hitting us were dissolving, but they’d not last long under this barrage. Lincoln was happy to apply force to kill everyone in the ambush. She removed two small silver balls from a pocket and threw them at the sources of fire; they exploded with no sound or flash. Bodies and parts of bodies spiraling into the air was a gruesome sight. Worse than that, though, was that they landed on us. Feverishly, I brushed aside a two-fingered hand, eyeball, and teeth.
Lincoln hadn’t waited—when the bombs landed, she was on her feet, shooting into the chaos to ensure no one escaped. She motioned me to hurry, pointing at the Red Halls where the sounds of approaching staff and machinery emanated. I scrambled upright and sprinted after Lincoln, who abruptly vanished. I wasn’t certain if she’d become invisible or had left the location, so I simply ran to where I’d last seen her. Harsh buzzing near my ears told me I was being targeted from behind.
I fell into bubble foam, which broke my fall quite nicely. Lincoln grasped my shoulder and pulled me to my feet. We were standing in a very dim room, so its size was hard to determine. Lincoln was smiling, proving again that having someone who knew what they were doing was vital if you wanted to do anything involving guns, bombs, ambushes, and security forces.
“I try to keep a couple of portable escape hatches with me,” Lincoln advised before something exploded in the shadows. Off she raced, with me once again following.
Our pursuers got louder and louder. We scurried through a doorway and Lincoln stopped to bolt the door, which seemed a waste. A door was hardly going to stop whatever was behind us. Having a space warp would, though. The door displayed the typical pattern of a warp, a spiral design punched onto metal; the space on the other side shrank microns and then expanded them. A warp like that would have pulled in loose particles not shielded, like the following team and all their equipment.
They’d return with fresh crews and equipment, so there was a tiny window in which to act before we were tracked. I took the opportunity, loosened my false tooth with my tongue, and spat it into my hand. “I
need you to do something for me.”
Lincoln heard the urgency and stood very still.
“I need you to find my wife and daughter. They’re in the Circle. This is a heartbeat and it’ll guide you to them.” I held out my hand. “Please put them on the 8:30 sailing of the Lacoon Cruiser tonight.” I removed two first-class tickets from a deep pocket and held them out. They could live their lives in the open. It was a hopeless attempt at last-minute restitution, years in the making, and now being delivered by a stranger. “I’ll lead the trackers away so you can get a head start. Please do this. It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you.”
“Is this what you’ve been hiding all this time? The something you’ve been so careful not to talk about? Now you want to go off and be heroic, fuck you. Give them the tickets yourself and trust your friends.”
The sounds from the other side made it clear we were out of time, so I spun and started to run. Lincoln could follow or do as I’d requested.
“Target acquired to the left!” An explosion followed.
I jumped, hoping that Lincoln had done as I asked. I landed at a street corner and ran for the retail unit around the corner, pushing open the door as trackers struck the ground behind. I raced into the changing room at the rear and dove through the mirror. It was just as well that I’d practiced this, so I didn’t have to think. I was furious with Lincoln. She had no right to undermine me, to suggest that this was another crazy episode. Instead of being a true self-sacrifice, that it was a pathetic selfish act, a final slap at my wife and daughter. I was saying I’d rather be dead than with them.
It was true that this was the only way to secure their freedom. When I was dead, as in fully dead, the trail would go cold and they’d be able to walk in the sunshine. Guilt wasn’t the main motive at play here, and shame and the unwillingness to meet their eyes and have them judge my weakness wasn’t what was driving me. I was making the correct decision. Who was Lincoln to say it anyway? What did she know about the problems we had? Would she have done anything differently? No, she’d have made the same decision.
Thoughts raged and my body dashed and ducked as I leapt through a tunnel behind the mirror and pulled waiting chains that released a flood of acid steam. It wouldn’t delay them for long, if at all, and that didn’t matter. It showed I was being serious, not just a decoy. This was the real deal.
A triple-fork exit came into view. I took one and stepped on the dock at the marina. My boat was small and fast. It took off in a blink and I fell onto the seat. The plan had been developed four years previous, when I realized I’d have to leave a spectacular trail to cover the others. Having no idea which event would start the process, I concentrated on the route.
I’d run it regularly and updated it to account for changing circumstances. Though the various links changed as needed, they always ended at the same place. Suddenly, the boat caught fire, courtesy of an incendiary round fired by the pursuing team. This was a little ahead of schedule, but still within the bounds of the plan.
The boat split in two and I fell into the water, weights in my hands pulling me down fast, but not fast enough. A dart snagged my shoulder and I could feel tension in the attached line increase and slow me down. A quick release worked and I dropped out of my suit as it was rapidly hauled up.
I passed the through the doorway feeling the ground once again beneath my feet. I walked between buildings, into the Celitrope Centre, the biggest personal living space development disaster in Mengchi. This was a substantial claim to make, but there was widespread agreement that the Celitrope Centre met the most rigorous standards for the title.
No one knew exactly how big it was as it was still growing, but the rate had slowed considerably, due to action by the Standing Committee to locate and deactivate the hottest of the growth cells. There were still a lot of cells, but expansion was considered acceptable compared to the cost of halting it.
The original design had been a mushroom with roots in the Cliffside, extending out before expanding into an enormous dome. This utilized abundant empty space over the water at Cliffside, and provided a controlled traffic route into the city proper. The Celitrope Centre was designed to be a slum from the outset, so controlled access was a priority.
What hadn’t been a priority was control over construction, which had been done as inexpensively as possible “using innovate methods which would deliver sustainable results in a reduced timescale”. Self-replicating growth cells were used. Each had a limit, which should have delivered a completed, uniform construction. Unfortunately, all had been managed via multiple independent projects—rather than one master plan—with no communication between any.
The Celitrope Centre grew into the extraordinary beehive it was today, providing living space to a third of Mengchi lifeforms and contributing more than half of the city’s civil security activity. It was a boil on the bum of the city, but also a useful one, so no one did anything to fix it. It also seemed the most logical place for me to flee to, for the scale and diversity of illegal activity would provide excellent cover.
The immediate problem was surviving the journey from entry point to destination. Every part of the Celitrope Centre was controlled by an individual or a group—and all wanted payment for travels taken through it. There were continuing disputes regarding the control of different sections, so more than one set of owners could demand payment for travels across the same space. Market forces recognized an opportunity. Residents could pay into mutual funds, which covered certain Centre routes. The funds paid owners and kept a premium for administration. I was a member of 14 different one, so I wouldn’t use any of those routes; I’d simply “freelance” my way.
I activated my Whisper Suit and vanished from view of all legal tracking devices, as well as 90% of the illegal ones used in the Celitrope Centre. For the remaining 10%, I’d use decoys. The Centre was full of lifeforms looking to make cash to buy a blaster or place to sleep unmolested. I’d built up a business of sorts, employing a rotating number to travel with me through the walkways. They’d walk alongside for a short while and then shoot off in different directions. While with me, they were covered by the Whisper Suit; when not, they’d return to regular visibility, trackers would follow them until they realised their mistake.
The decoys never robbed me because I had no money and I was willing to fight. The money was always waiting for them at the end of the chosen route. I’d done it often enough to establish rules, as well as my reliability, re payment. The signal had been sent when I’d passed through the mirror, so when I was on the walkway between buildings, the first group joined me.
The groups changed as we progressed, so by the time I was close to my destination, I’d had four of them … before running into the Bricklayers. The Bricklayers weren’t the biggest, most violent, or the best armed or connected in the Celitrope Centre—but they were the most territorial and they’d clearly taken over the area that included my destination.
My decoys scattered, which fragmented the Bricklayers’ focus for an instant, which I used that to run, run, run. Having a single target, however, restored said focus and they hastened after me. I wore Running-Man boots so they’d never catch me; they’d simply box me in and find me. I needed to be out sight long enough to duck into my chosen location.
Information was useless until you need it. I knew the layout of the three-unit area well enough to run it blindfolded. The Bricklayers wouldn’t have yet generated that micro-knowledge (I hoped). To draw the Bricklayers into formation, I performed a reverse loop and hastily entered the necessary unit. Jumping up the stairs, I arrived at the space set up for the grand finale.
In the room with the best view over crowded streets, I perched in a big comfortable chair and waited for the invasion. I reckoned the Bricklayers wouldn’t pose a problem until I was well past caring about them, but the other trackers would be zeroing in on me now.
Taps on the walls around the windows was what I had been waiting for. Pulling a kit from a pocket, I che
cked all was in order. I needed to push a needle into my leg and the process would start, and no one would be able to stop it. I was ready for action when I heard entry holes being cut into the walls. Microphones and sound snoopers positioned over likely entry points were paying off. Preparation was everything. My plan was simple. Dying was easy, staying dead was not. I had to stay dead and be beyond the reach of those who knew how to wring information from a ex-corpse.
Once I saw the pursuers were close enough I would use the kit and become infected. The kit would be visible in my hand which would warn them against coming too close. A team of IPS equivalents would be sent in to seal my body in protective foam and carry me to a sky launch. We would be boosted into space and a sufficient distance from everything would vaporise. I would have become a dead end in every sense and my family would finally be safe.
Murky shapes appeared in the doorway, a couple of security agents in blur-motion uniforms; they remained stationary. A sword-like weapon flew past view and exploded before making contact. My suit absorbed the impact. The eye defenders I wore as part of the preparation for my death did just that—defended my eyes as blood and brains splashed all over me. The impact from the explosion propelled me into a wall and my balls contacted the armrest of a chair after I’d awkwardly sailed into it, before falling and hitting my head on the floor.
In a daze, I heard serious fighting. Someone sprayed the room with energy bolts that sliced the chair above my upturned bum. Shouting preceded a wave grenade being tossed into the room, which tossed me about before hurling me at the opposite wall. There may have been voices or ringing in my ears before the silence, but eventually I came to the painful awareness of still being alive … and having utterly failed.
“Trust your friends” is what Lincoln had said. I couldn’t trust my enemies to follow a carefully planned trail to an undefended space to witness my death without fucking it up; instead, they’d managed to lose a firefight. By landing on outside walls, they’d loudly advertised their presence to the Bricklayers.
Bottle Born Blues Page 17