Mortal Remains

by Christopher Evans

  “Did you explain that I had a pressing private engagement of the most spiritual nature?”

  “As you instructed. I managed to persuade him to call one more time. He says it will be in the next hour.”

  Which meant that he was eager to offload the womb to them. Eager and possibly desperate.

  “Have we been able to raise the money?”

  “Not without grave difficulty.” He produced a metal case, flipping it open to reveal the notes packed inside. “Awkward questions were asked, a strain put on certain loyalties.”

  She merely laughed. “You’re such a worrier.”

  He bristled. “It’s my duty to advise you against this course of action.”

  “Come, come,” she said soothingly. “Do you think I actually have any intention of handing over two million solars to a pair of petty thieves?”

  Now he was flustered. “I don’t understand … exactly what it is you intend.”

  “Is Shivaun here?”

  Luis turned and motioned to one of the staff. A figure stepped forward.

  Shivaun was a slim but muscular woman with handsome features and sapphire eyes. She wore the deep purple expediter’s tunic, her dark hair tied back, emphasizing her forthright air. She was forty-five, in prime physical condition. Flesh of my flesh, Bezile thought proudly with an inward smile.

  “Thank you for coming so promptly, my dear,” she said. “Join me in the roller. We have things to discuss.”

  Luis stood rooted with confusion. “It would be helpful,” he began, “if I were informed of your … proposal.”

  “I propose that we proceed immediately to Phalarope,” she told him. “I take it we can still be in time for the meeting?”

  With a studied show of forbearance, he checked his pad. “Yes.”

  “Then let us go. Do you think I would flog myself through such a day of toil, only then to deprive myself of one of my few recreations?”

  • • •

  I surfaced briefly out of a fog of dreams. The room was dimly lit, a rectangle of light at the open door.

  I was lying with my head to one side. The woman—Nina—was standing in the doorway with two others. At first I thought they were twins, but then I saw it was a young man and woman, he dark, she fair.

  All three were dressed in white. All three were looking in my direction. I tried to read their expressions but I couldn’t focus. They began talking, but the words were a drone. Then sleep swallowed me up again.

  • • •

  Melisande was a city that shone brighter by night than by day. Its buildings phosphoresced and scintillated in the drizzly darkness while brollied citizens emerged to find their pleasures in nightsports, stimstores, under awnings in street cafés awash with holograms advertising mood-mellowers and the delights of offworld excursions. By day the oppressive equatorial heat and dampness limited activities to the essentials, but night brought cooling breezes that enlivened everyone.

  Phalarope was a swampy district on the eastern outskirts of the city, famous for its racetracks. Bezile had liked to gamble on the races ever since her youth, but she was prudent enough not to risk stakes that might jeopardize her status as an arbiter. The distraction of the womb was more than mildly irritating, despite its undoubted importance, the more so when Maltazar called again as they were arriving at the stadium.

  Bezile was brusque. “The money is available,” she told him. “But I must take delivery tonight.”

  “That’s impossible,” he protested.

  “Then find another buyer. I have no intention of doing any further bargaining with you.”

  A muffled silence at the other end. Then: “You’ve got the money, you said.”

  “It’s all in notes. Old ones, untraceable. That’s the usual arrangement, I understand.”

  More hesitation. “Do you want me to meet you?”

  “I should have thought that would be vital to the transaction.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the Phalarope stadium. For the races. Do you know it?”

  Another sullen pause. “I’ve heard of it.”

  “What better place to make the exchange than in the middle of a crowd? I’m wearing my robes. I should be easy to spot.”

  “You’ve got the money with you?”

  “In a case.”

  “I don’t like the sound of it.”

  “That is unfortunate. I shall be here until midnight, no later.”

  She was certain she could hear him cursing under his breath. There were three hours to midnight. Bezile stifled a yawn: it had been a hard day, and it was far from over.

  “I’ll call you with further instructions,” he told her.

  He hung up. Bezile contemplated the maw of the handset, then turned to Luis. “Did you get that?”

  “I think this is very dangerous,” he said earnestly. “These are not the sort of people we should be trifling with. We could lose everything.”

  “Rather exciting, though, you have to admit. Such cloak and daggery. Who’d have believed that people really do act in this way?” She turned to Shivaun. “I think you had better go and prepare yourself.”

  Without a word, the expediter rose and slipped out of the roller.

  Bezile had a private box high in the south stand of the stadium. The meeting was well under way, the crowd busy roaring their approval or derision for the bayhounds who were pursuing a marsh-hare around the outer watercourse, its flippers thrashing madly as it raced for the sanctuary of the finishing enclosure. Bezile’s box was insulated from the raucousness, but she sometimes donned civilian clothes and went down among the crowd with its sweat and swearing and general disorder. You had to beware of pickpockets, though; they’d strip you of everything including your dignity given half a chance. But it was worth the risk, each adventure an antidote to the stifling gentility of her public life.

  The box was already occupied by Shivaun, who was donning a biofibre wraparound of Bezile’s image. It fitted her perfectly, and Bezile’s private irony was delicious: only up close was the illusion obvious in the grainy skin tones. With a certain sense of excitement, Bezile took off her rings and handed them over to her clone-daughter.

  Of course Shivaun knew nothing of her true maternity, and Bezile had had every one of her brood-daughters prenatally modified so that none would resemble her too closely. Besides, her own cosmetic ageing, done for the gravitas of her office, set her apart from the youthful norm. Bezile had always taken a close but professional interest in Shivaun’s career, using her for assignments that required discretion and absolute loyalty. And Shivaun had never failed her: of the seven of her daughters, she was the best of them, the only one who had truly fulfilled her potential.

  Bezile felt a distinct thrill to be involved in such skulduggery: normally she led a very sheltered life. Her only regret was that she could play no active part herself from now on.

  Donning a drab cow led cloak, she surrendered her robes and went down into the crowd. The long-suffering Luis hovered at her side, ready to enter her bets, intolerably nervous at the thought of losing the two million. She occupied him with a complicated accumulator, then lost herself in the crowd, preferring to be alone with her comlink.

  The main focus of her interest that evening was the rhinocerhorse races. She liked nothing better than to watch the bulky flat-footed beasts charge their way down the swamp track, buffeting and banging at one another with their blunt horns and noseplates. She had backed an outsider for the first race and was delighted when it came in, its jockey bruised and bleeding but triumphant. The second race was about to get under way when Maltazar called.

  “I’m here,” he announced without preamble.

  Her wrist optic remained resolutely grey.

  “At the stadium?” she said.

  “Where else?”

  “Excellent,” she replied, peering up at the box. Shivaun stood framed in the window in her regalia, and she was confident Maltazar could see her and would assume it was he
r. Shivaun also had her link open so she could monitor everything that was said.

  “Here’s the way we’ll work it,” Maltazar went on. “I want you to come down to the paddock nearest the North Gate. Got that? The North Gate. You come alone. Anonymous. Get rid of the robes. Civilian dress, otherwise you don’t see me. Bring the money with you. And no funny business!”

  He cut the contact.

  Bezile saw Shivaun moving away from the window. Really, this was terribly exciting!

  Drably garbed but still ample, her daughter presently appeared and began to descend an aisle. Bezile indulged herself in a little vanity at the sight of her image: big-framed and matronly, she was quite a striking woman. It did not surprise her when a few individuals in the crowd began to recognize her, despite the workaday guise. She was soon surrounded by a small group of admirers and supplicants.

  The man came on line again: “You’ve got an audience. The deal’s off.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Am I to be blamed if my face is well known? Do you wish to draw even more attention to me by dragging this out?”

  It was a gamble. There was a long silence. Then:

  “Go to the cash booth next to the hound pens.”

  Bezile instructed Shivaun to switch on her eye contacts. Her optic showed her pushing through the crowd towards the booth. People kept coming up to her, kissing her ring, pleading for some favour or redress. Shivaun played the part to perfection, uttering soothing words but moving relentlessly on. Even those who touched her did not seem to register the disguise: it was as if her very presence overwhelmed any trifling details of unreality.

  Punters were clustered around the booth, the hounds were baying in their pens, and suddenly two men thrust themselves upon her. Bezile saw them wrench the case from Shivaun’s hand, then push a bag into her arms before attempting to flee.

  But Shivaun reacted swiftly, as she was trained to do. An expert in unarmed combat, she leapt forward, knocking one man down with a well-aimed kick. Several officials burst out of the crowd and bundled the second man to the muddy earth. In a matter of seconds, both were securely in custody.

  Bezile blanked the optic; she had seen enough. The second race was starting and she watched it, yelling for her horse which won by two good lengths. Only then did she begin to make her way through the crowd to her box.

  Luis, more lathered than the horses, greeted her with abject relief. He had her robes waiting for her and a silver mug of warm vine-milk. Her fur chair travelled most places with her; she settled herself comfortably in it.

  Presently, the miscreants were brought before her. The squatter of the two was covered with mud and dung, while Maltazar limped heavily on one leg. Shivaun, restored to her familiar form, stood guard over them along with three politia officers. Bezile silvered the windows on the box to ensure privacy.

  One of the officers handed the money case to Luis, who proceeded to check its contents minutely. Shivaun was holding the bag. Bezile stroked the arms of her chair, and it gave off a low growl of contentment. Despite the injury to his leg, Maltazar stood before her in an attitude of surly defiance. Bezile ignored him, and instructed Shivaun to open the bag.

  The egg-shaped object inside was wrapped in a grubby cloth. It proved to be nothing more than a lump of grey spongestone.

  Bezile turned her gaze to Maltazar. “Where is it?”

  “Go to hell.”

  She smiled. “That is something that should be concerning you more than me at the moment, my good man.”

  The third race was announced. Bezile pointedly delayed the interrogation while she watched it. She was on a run of luck, but unfortunately the mount she had backed unseated its rider even as it crossed the finishing line. It was promptly disqualified. This did not improve her mood.

  “We face something of a dilemma here,” she informed Maltazar and his confederate. “You promised me something but you have failed to deliver. Let me tell you now that I am not a charitable woman, despite my station. You both have criminal records. I think I shall have you erased.”

  Maltazar cloaked his initial surprise with a dismissive expression. “You can’t do that.”

  “Unfortunately for you, I can. And shall unless you tell me where the womb is.”

  “Erasure’s only allowed for capital offences,” Maltazar insisted.

  “Which makes it wholly appropriate in your case. We have evidence of your implication in at least two murders. And, of course, there is the missing object. A living thing, you said. A thing of considerable biological importance. Unless it is recovered, I shall personally see to it that you receive the maximum possible sentence for the wanton destruction of a human life form.”

  She saw him swallow. “You’re bluffing.”

  “You may rest assured I am not. As you can imagine, my offices have considerable resources at their disposal. I regard this as a matter of the highest criminality. I hope you understand what I am saying. There will be no mercy.”

  “Pavel, tell her,” the plump man said.

  Thoroughly coated with ripe rhino excreta, he looked both miserable and terrified. Erasure meant a total, irreversible mind-blank. Death in the most brutal mental sense.

  “It was a fair deal,” Maltazar insisted. “You had no intention of paying up, did you? I had to protect my investment.”

  “Investment? What a quaint choice of word. You wanted to take the money and run, without delivering anything. That is what irks me. Is there no honour amongst thieves?”

  Beyond the silvered box, the crowd were cheering as another race commenced. Maltazar maintained an attitude of defiance.

  “I think we need waste our time no further here,” Bezile said to Shivaun. “It’s obvious they never had what they claimed. You may take them away. Have them stupefied ready for despatch.”

  The officers took hold of both men. Bezile unsilvered the window, as if to give her full attention to the race. As Maltazar was bustled towards the door, he said, “All right.”

  Bezile turned to face him.

  “You’ve got to give me something,” he said. “Some payment.”

  “You’re no longer in a position to bargain with me.”

  “I contacted you in good faith.”

  “Good faith has been rather absent in this entire enterprise, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’ll take a tenth of my original price.”

  She laughed. “I have no evidence you have anything to offer.”

  “You had the replic.”

  “And far more convincing it was, too, than this ball of stone. Do you expect me to believe in something that has no actual substance?”

  He regarded her with open loathing. “You’ve made a career of it, haven’t you?”

  It was a good riposte, she conceded to herself.

  “Am I to take it that I’m talking to a Mortalist?”

  “I don’t need the dead to tell me how to lead my life.”

  “The present situation appears to contradict that in all respects.”

  “You owe me! If you want the goods, then you’ve got to pay.”

  Bezile flexed her fingers on the arms of the chair, hard enough so that its purr was interrupted by a grunt of discomfort. She always enjoyed a good verbal tussle, especially when she knew she had the upper hand.

  “I’m prepared to give you a token payment as a sign of good faith. Shall we say ten thousand?”

  “That’s less than I paid for it!”

  “I assure you I don’t intend to drain our coffers by one solar more. That is my final offer. You can have the money and free passage to—let us see—one of the Uranian moons, perhaps. A few years’ indented service contract as a clinical trialist of psycosmetics might be appropriate. I gather there’s a very good sanatory in Miranda Prime.”

  “This is outrageous!”

  “It might be worse. Would you prefer somewhere hotter? Sol-side on Mercury, perhaps? There are plenty of positions available and a shortage of able bodies.” She was enjoying herself aga
in. “We’ll hold the money in interest, along with a reasonable pension. Enough to keep you both comfortable for a decade or so after your term.” Her casual tone changed to one of deadly seriousness: “I want you to understand that you really have no choice in the matter. And all of this only applies when I have the object here in front of me and have verified its worth.”

  She gave him her most relentless stare. He blustered a little more, but she was obdurate. His accomplice, still terrified, began to urge him to accept.

  “I’ll come out of this worse off than I went in,” he complained.

  “You’ll come out of it alive. In complete possession of your faculties. I’m also prepared, as a special gesture of goodwill, to have your records wiped clean. In five years’ time you can begin again as citizens of good standing. Such a bargain! What is five years against immediate, absolute death?” She allowed a pause. “Where is it?”

  “It’s in one of the feeder bins,” the other man blurted. “At the slayhound pens.”

  “What? You’ve put it in the dogfood?”

  “It’s wedged just inside the hopper,” Maltazar told her. “You couldn’t budge it unless you knew what you were looking for.”

  Bezile let a silence extend.

  “It’s the truth!” Maltazar’s accomplice insisted.

  “Go down and see,” Bezile ordered Shivaun.

  They waited, Bezile studying her wristlink while Luis confirmed that none of the money had been lost. She told him to count out ten thousand solars in hundred solar notes. She seldom used money herself, though she fully understood why it remained the favourite medium of exchange amongst underclass types such as Maltazar, who would prefer not to leave a record of his transactions through skin scrapes or retina scans. Not that either man was going to get a single solar.

  Bezile instructed the officers to take both men away and clean them up. She suggested that Luis accompany them. He obviously felt that so menial a task was beneath him, but she knew he would do as she wanted. And she wanted him temporarily out of the way.

  Alone, Bezile opened her wristlink. She saw Shivaun recover the bag from the pen. On Bezile’s instructions, she opened the bag and displayed it. It seemed to be the genuine article, and Shivaun confirmed that it was warm and alive. She instructed Shivaun to take it straight to her private office and say nothing to anyone.