One of Us

by Michael Marshall Smith

  It’s individual domains again out there, but the houses are of more baroque design and have Fuck-off Dogs sleeping out front. As you drive past in the twilight each opens one eye and growls to let you know he’s there. They’re basically hack detectors, and can deal with anything short of a supervirus. There was a period when you’d see lions, dragons and eternal vortexes of death-knives keeping guard, but then the hackers all moved on to some other fad and dogs slowly took over again.

  Time tends to seem to slow down a little in the hacker zone, because of the processing requirements of all of their little tweaks and hacks. Roads seldom lead where you expect, and unless you know where you’re going—and have forward clearance—you’ll find yourself burped out somewhere on the other side of the Net.

  Eventually I got to Quat’s road, and drove up to his gate. His Fuck-off hauled itself to its feet and squinted irritably at me as I approached. He’s an old version and getting tired, but Quat’s too sentimental to upgrade. I held my hand out and let the dog sniff it, as always half-expecting to lose my fingers, but he recognized my Preferences File and let me through. It tried to send a cookie back down the link as I passed, and I blocked it as usual. One of Quat’s milder cookies will localize your operating system into Amish, and one time he turned my avatar into a serial killer. I’d whacked fourteen virtual people in cyburbia before the sysCops caught up with me, but luckily Quat had included an Undo function and no lasting harm was done.

  I parked in front of the house and ran up the path to the front door. As the buzzer played what sounded like an entire random symphony deep in the bowels of the house, I nervously hopped from foot to foot and looked through the window into Quat’s living room. It was very tidy. It always is. Quat’s so house-proud, the rumour goes that even in the real world when he has a party, he insists that everyone is modelled in code and spends the evening in a virtual reality version of his apartment: then when they go he can just restore it from a backup, without the wine stains and piles of vomit. I’d never actually met Quat in the flesh, but I could believe it.

  ‘Yo,’ he said, when he opened the door. ‘You got my message.’

  ‘Nice suit, Quatty,’ I replied. Quat always dresses like a particularly straight-laced FBI agent from the 1950s, which I guess is an ironic statement of some kind. His virtual face, likewise, is a picture of stern respectability—whereas I expect in the real world he looks the usual hacker mess and doesn’t spend enough money on clothes.

  ‘Can’t stay,’ I said, and he nodded.

  ‘I guessed a call at three in the morning was unlikely to have been purely social. What do you need?’

  ‘A machine.’

  ‘What kind of machine?’

  I looked him straight in the eye. ‘A memory transmitter.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes. And soon.’

  He shook his head slowly, still looking at me. ‘Soon I can’t do. At all is going to be very difficult. As you know. And expensive. I only know about two people who might be able to lash one up, and they’re both doing time with no hope of Net access.’

  ‘There’s someone around who can do it,’ I said.

  ‘Got a name?’

  I shook my head, wishing I’d thought to ask Laura but knowing she wouldn’t have told me. ‘Just trust me, there is. And however much it costs, I need a machine. Now.’

  ‘Someone taken a job they shouldn’t have done?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘It doesn’t worry you that if Stratten finds out he’s going to be extremely mad? I mean, like, killing mad?’

  ‘Quat, I’ve got no choice. The last lump of money your daemon fractalled for me was the first payment for the job. The dump’s already in my head. You’ve got to find this guy, and fast.’

  Facial reactions don’t mean a whole lot in the Net, but Quat’s stern face looked especially stern. ‘What are you carrying?’

  ‘A murder. A cop killing. And there’s something hinky about it. I need it out of my head.’

  He looked away, running his eyes over the pristine tidiness of his hallway. In reality he could have been doing anything, and was probably already starting getting in touch with his contacts.

  ‘Got to go,’ I said. ‘Give me an estimate.’

  ‘Twenty-four hours.’

  My heart dropped. ‘Shit—that long?’

  ‘If you’re lucky. Where are you going to be?’

  ‘Wherever I am,’ I said, and went.

  Quat and his house dissolved into a shower of pixels, and I was back in the car park again. I was about to leap out and go running upstairs, with that youthful vigour I have, but then decided I could do with a quick cigarette without Laura Reynolds whining at me. Meantime I got the teleputer to flash up the bottom line of today’s news. People were doing stuff, or had done stuff, none of it of direct relevance to me. It was going to be a sunny day, unless it pissed down later on. There was nothing about the Hammond case. Life was holding steady, at least for the time being.

  I finished the cigarette and slipped out of the car, trying not to let any of the smoke escape.

  I knew something was wrong as soon as I closed the apartment door behind me. Rather than knocking I’d used my key, on the grounds that Laura might be in escapist mood. Turned out not to be an issue. The living room was empty, and a glance to the side told me there was no-one in the bathroom either. I quickly walked to both bedrooms, then turned round and pointlessly searched in the living room again. Deck and Laura continued to fail to be there.

  I stopped myself from going and checking the other rooms again. The apartment was empty. You can tell. The objects in the room looked smug and over-prominent, in that way they do when they’ve got the space to themselves. I stood still for a moment, blinking, not sure how to react but suspecting that outright panic was the way forward. I hadn’t specifically told Deck not to take Laura out shopping or something, but he’s a bright guy. I’m sure he took it as read. There was a third used coffee cup on the counter, which meant there’d been time for Laura to finish up in the bathroom and doubtless irritably accept a cup. The readout on the answering machine said no-one had called, and the machine itself bad-temperedly confirmed this.

  There was no note, and no sign of a struggle in the apartment. There just wasn’t anyone there. The place felt like the Marie Celeste except that it wasn’t a ship and was carpeted.

  The phone rang. I grabbed it. ‘Deck?’

  ‘No—it’s the Tidster.’

  ‘Tid—have you seen Deck? With a woman?’

  He laughed. ‘No. That’d be something to remember, right?’

  ‘You didn’t see him leave the building.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what the hell are you calling for?’

  ‘You still interested in hearing if any official-looking dudes pull up outside?’

  My blood ran a little colder. ‘What are you telling me?’

  ‘Silver car, two guys, ten seconds ago.’

  ‘Holy fuck.’ I put the phone down on Tid, who was still talking, snatched my coat and ran out of the apartment. Dithered for a moment in the hallway, then headed towards the bank of elevators which lead down the northern side of the building—judging that the men would come up the central way.

  As I ran I asked four questions: how the hell had they found the apartment? Why were they after me, and how did they even know I existed? Who the hell were they?

  No answers came. Near the end of the corridor I found myself slowing down, and stopped just before turning the corner. I had the jitters big time, and not just because of the general situation. I felt trapped. I glanced back towards the apartment: there was no sign of anyone yet, but once they entered my corridor they’d see me, and I was too far away to hear the elevator doors. Large and noisy sections of my brain were shouting at me to just keep running, head for the other bank and get the hell down to another floor. But something else was telling me to be careful. I deci
ded to trust it.

  I reached into my pocket and yanked out the clock, shook it vigorously until it woke up.

  ‘Jeez, what time is it?’ it said, irritably. ‘I’m bushed.’

  ‘Got a job for you,’ I said.

  At this the clock brightened considerably. ‘Cool. What?’

  ‘I need you to go round the corner, walk until you can see the elevator doors.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it. If the doors open and anything danger-shaped comes out, run back here shouting your head off.’

  I set the clock down on the floor. It looked up at me suspiciously, and I waved it forward. As it toddled off round the corner, keeping close to the wall, I prepared to feel kind of foolish.

  For a minute it was very quiet; then I heard the sound of the elevator doors opening. The clock didn’t shout.

  I was halfway round the corner when I heard something else.

  A single gunshot.

  After a brief pause in which I froze, shocked into immobility, the clock came hurtling round the corner towards me. ‘Shit,’ it squeaked breathlessly, and then it was gone. I took after it as fast as I could, but not quickly enough to avoid getting a glimpse of who had come out of the elevator.

  Two men. Dressed in grey.

  I hurtled down the corridor, knowing I was trapped. As I passed the clock it made a dive for my jeans, clung on and scrambled hectically up my leg. When it got to the top it scurried rapidly back into my jacket pocket, and nosed its way into the deepest corner. I sensed it wasn’t going to be a great deal of help.

  I heard a ping, and realized that someone was about to enter the floor via the central elevators. I glanced behind and saw that the two men were coming down the corridor after me. They were running fast, with a compact running style in exact step with each other. In that second I also flashed on something I hadn’t consciously noticed in the memory: both were wearing old-fashioned sunglasses, like sloping beetle eyes.

  The one on the right scoped me and a shot rang out, whistling about a foot to the side of my leg. I found my rhythm again, and then some. As I sprinted round the corner I saw four old people getting out of the elevator, in a neat two by two formation. They looked pretty alarmed. I banged straight through the middle—knocking three of them over—and into the elevator behind them. I slapped the button and threw myself flat against the side wall as the oldsters squawked and jabbered. The doors closed mercifully quickly and I just stared across the elevator, panting slightly, not bothering to peek through the narrowing gap.

  Then it was closed, and we were heading down. ‘They shot at me,’ came a muffled voice from my pocket, sounding genuinely upset.

  ‘Fuckers,’ I said, pulling out my gun. ‘I won’t stand for that.’

  ‘You mean it?’

  I slammed a clip in. ‘Absolutely. You’re my clock. Anyone shoots you, it’s going to be me.’

  I decided against screwing around with lower floors and went straight to the basement. Waved the gun around as I jumped out, but nobody was there. I turned and shot out the elevator controls on both sides, and an alarm of implacable vehemence went off.

  I ran across the parking lot with the back of my neck writhing, expecting something small and hard to smack into it at any moment. I left the Falkland’s premises at around a hundred miles an hour, for once in my life deciding that anti-collision software was for wimps. I lost the back end for a while as I swerved onto the street, causing a certain amount of disquiet in my fellow road-users, then just put my foot down and headed for the gate.

  It was only when I was half a mile away that I remembered I’d left the memory receiver in my apartment.

  Six

  I called Deck’s house from the car, though I knew it was pointless. He lives out near the front in Santa Monica, and there was no way he could have got there in the time I was in the Net, even assuming he had a reason to. The phone rang for a while, and then his machine kicked in. I shouted something brief and to the point at it, then hung up.

  When I was through the wall and back in real LA I dropped speed back to something approaching legal, and retraced my route of the night before back out to the Boulevard. I didn’t know what else to do. The only thing I could think of was that Laura had somehow convinced Deck to take her back to the hotel to collect her moisturizing creams and exfoliants. Long shot, I grant you, but it was either that or they were still in Griffith somewhere, and I believed it would be better for me to spend the next couple hours elsewhere. I had no idea who the guys in grey were, or what they wanted—but it was clear they were pretty hot at finding people: even people they’d never seen before. I wanted lots of distance between us. I reasoned that Deck knew my number: he’d call when he could. Assuming no-one was stopping him.

  I wasn’t surprised to see the same flunky behind the desk at the Nirvana, and he didn’t seem surprised to see me.

  ‘Chip,’ I said, reading the name off his badge. ‘How the devil are you?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ he said, after a pause.

  ‘Good to hear it. Now, question: has Ms Reynolds been back here this morning, with a guy?’

  ‘No sir,’ Chip said. ‘But a guy came with another guy, and they were looking for her.’

  ‘What did they look like?’

  ‘Medium height. Kind of sombre, with matching outfits. Arrived about ten minutes after you left last night.’

  I stared back at him. ‘And what did you tell them?’

  ‘That Ms Reynolds had just been abducted. I gave them a thorough description of you, and read them your registration number off the external security camera.’

  ‘I see. Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘They threatened to kill me, too. And they were even more convincing.’

  That at least explained how they’d tracked me down. ‘Fair enough. Any cops been by?’

  ‘No,’ Chip said, cheerfully. ‘Guess I’ve got that to look forward to.’

  ‘Not necessarily. But if they do, will you do me a favour?’

  ‘Maybe. What?’

  ‘Forget I was here.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  I pulled my wallet out. The only big note I had left was a fifty. ‘Partly this,’ I said, placing it on the counter. ‘Mainly just because it would help me out, and right now I’m a person who could use some assistance.’

  The money vanished. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and turned to go. The adrenaline which had shot me across from Griffith was turning sour, and I wasn’t in the mood to play tough guy any longer. Either he’d help me out, or he wouldn’t. Not much I could do about it.

  I was a couple of yards from the door when he called out to me. I turned to see him holding something in his hand. ‘Her bag,’ he said. ‘You left it in her room.’

  I took it from him, looked inside. The remainder of her clothes, her purse, even the half-bottle of vodka.

  ‘How come you didn’t give this to the other guys?’

  ‘They didn’t ask for it. Plus I don’t think you’re the only person who needs some help.’

  I looked at him. He was young, wholesome, firmly of the genus ‘Hotel Staff Who Rate Their Chances At Making Duty Manager Within Five Years’, but evidently more than that.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That woman. She seemed nice, but in a spot. Anyone who’s skinny and pretty and drunk before she goes out for the evening isn’t thinking happy thoughts. It’s a hard call, but I reckon you’re closer to being a friend to her than the other guys. I don’t think they had anyone’s happiness on their minds.’

  I zipped the bag up again. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘See you around.’

  ‘With the greatest of respect,’ Chip replied, ‘I hope not.’

  The car was parked in the lot of the diner opposite. I tried Deck’s number once more, with the same result. I could either go wait outside his house, or I could go back to Griffith. Someone once taught me that if you don’t know where you’re go
ing, there’s no point hurrying there, so I rootled round in Laura’s purse for a moment, then locked the car up and went to get some food.

  During the day the diner looked considerably less dangerous, though probably still not somewhere you’d want to take someone of a nervous disposition. Me, for example. It was also empty, apart from a well-dressed guy slumped over a coffee at the far end. The cook nodded at me as I came in, so I felt welcome, which was nice. The way things were going I was going to be living in places like this for the rest of my life.

  The menu informed me that the pigs which had ended up in the sausage patties had all been organically farmed, and that everyone had been real nice to them throughout their lives. It seemed unlikely to me that the diner’s clientele would give a shit—these are guys whose hair is still wet from climbing out of the primordial soup. But that’s LA for you: maybe they all practised mugging without cruelty. Personally I only care for pigs which have been kept in matchboxes and had people whisper nasty things to them in the night, but I ordered a small breakfast anyway. I could always beat up the sausage on my plate. From the look on the waitress’ face it was clear she was only working there to fill in time before the world ended in the depressing way she’d always anticipated. Taking my order seemed only to deepen her sadness.