by Neal Asher
The landing field was compacted greenish dirt webbed with plants similar to liverworts or some spillage of boiled spinach. From these plants sprang long hairlike stalks topped with spherical pink buds the size of peppercorns or the two-petalled flowers they opened out as. As he walked on a patch of these and got a stronger waft of their spicy perfume, Stanton remembered his last time here. Twenty solstan years ago he had come this way on his route into the Polity to make his fortune. Things had been different then. For one, there had not been as many ships here then as there were now. He looked around at the multifarious vessels. They were, on the whole, small cargo haulers, though of every conceivable design. He could guess what an awful lot of them were hauling too, and that was another change. At that time, the government here had put restrictions on arms, much the same as those in the Polity, and there had also been very strict laws concerning landing permits, passes and codes of conduct. Now nobody bothered. Why should they, when the Polity was soon to step in and take control? Why bother when there were fortunes to be made in the intervening years?
The two customs officials who approached were one example of the indolence and greed that affected the citizens of a world about to be subsumed. Their clothing was a mixture of uniform and personal clothing. The man wore the green peaked cap and jacket of customs personnel over a dusty pair of monofilament overalls. The woman wore the jacket over a brown leaf-shaped skirt, but no cap. She carried a scanner on which Stanton could see the charging light flickering, and as such was useless until charged. She also had an organic-looking augmentation behind her right ear. It had the flat bean shape of most augs, but was a greenish colour and seemed to be covered with glinting little scales.
‘Do you have a permit for that?’ said the man, pointing at Crane.
‘Permit?’ replied Pelter flatly.
Stanton quickly stepped up beside him. ‘We’re not sure of what is required. Perhaps you can help us out?’ he said, noting how intently the woman was staring at Pelter.
‘We can issue you with a permit. The cost will be . . . ten New Carth shillings, or the equivalent in New Yen. Then there is the matter of your visas,’ said the man.
Stanton pulled out the wallet Jarvellis had provided for them and opened it, making sure the man could not see how much it contained. Ten shillings was a derisory sum back in the Polity. Out here it was probably a day’s wages.
‘Perhaps you could tell us how much the visas cost?’ Pelter asked.
The man studied them. They looked, Pelter knew, somewhat ragged round the edges. He could also see how the man’s eyes kept straying to the briefcase Mr. Crane carried. That case was obviously new.
‘Visas are eight shillings per person. You will of course need three,’ he said.
‘Three? Why do we need a visa and a permit for Mr. Crane?’ Stanton asked.
‘Just pay him,’ said Pelter.
Stanton shook his head. It was the wrong thing to do. You gave people like this any leeway and they’d have you. Nevertheless he pulled out four ten shilling notes and handed them over. The man folded them and put them in his pocket.
‘That’s six shillings change,’ said Stanton.
The man made no move to search for any change. ‘I will need to look in the briefcase,’ he said.
Abruptly Mr. Crane stepped forwards and raised his head, which until then had been bowed. The man took an involuntary step back. He licked his lips. Stanton thought that, though Mr. Crane’s marbles were scattered far and wide, he did ‘menacing’ very well.
‘You will not need to look in the briefcase, and we will not require change,’ said Pelter.
The man was obviously riled by this. ‘Just one word and I can have ten men here with proton guns,’ he said.
Pelter’s face went dead. ‘I don’t even have to speak. It would take a second for Mr. Crane to rip you in half. Now get out of our way.’
The man bridled and the woman slapped her hand on his arm.
‘Jarl, leave it,’ she said.
‘But—’
‘Jarl!’
The woman and Pelter were staring hard at each other again. Stanton wondered what the hell all that was about. She pulled at Jarl’s arm and gestured to another ship that was landing over the other side of the field.
‘Another one coming in,’ she said, then glanced towards a gate in the far fence where some uniformed guards were lounging. To Pelter she said, ‘There will be no trouble over there, Arian Pelter. They’ll let you through.’ She pulled at Jarl and they moved away.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ Stanton asked Pelter. Pelter’s dead face had now taken on an expression of puzzlement. He looked at the retreating woman, then back towards the Lyric.
‘How much would Jarvellis have told them here?’ he asked.
‘She wouldn’t have said anything more than that she had some passengers. I know her, Arian, and she does stick to her word. I specifically asked her not to say anything, because if they’d run some sort of search on us they’d know to ask for bigger bribes.’
‘How did that woman know my name then?’
Stanton was at a loss. He too looked towards the Lyric again.
Pelter continued. ‘I was going to charter her for the trip back out of here. It’s best to stay with those you know so long as they don’t get too greedy.’
Stanton wondered what double meanings there were in that comment. He said, ‘You want me to talk to her? She’ll wait until we’re well clear—’ he glanced meaningfully at Mr. Crane ‘—before she’ll come out, but I can guess where to find her.’
‘Yes, do that.’
They started walking.
‘But before you do that,’ Pelter continued, ‘see if you can find the boys.’ He turned to Crane, and in response the android opened the briefcase, extracted a single sapphire, closed the case and held out the gem in the palm of his brass hand. ‘This will be payment to them on account.’ Pelter continued staring at Mr. Crane, and then abruptly lost patience. ‘Give it to him!’ Mr. Crane’s hand jerked and the gem shot towards Stanton’s face. He snatched it from the air.
‘What will you do?’ he asked, pocketing the gem.
‘I will find a dealer.’
Stanton glanced at the position in the sky of the lemon sun, and then he pointed to the urban sprawl in the distance. Between the fence and the town was a wasteland scattered with adapted acacia trees and low silvery sages. Amongst these were the corroding parts of starships and the occasional ruined AGC. The town began with the low spread of three-storey arcology buildings. Beyond them were city blocks and onion-shaped spires as from some Scheherazade tale; but AGCs flew among them, rather than magic carpets. How much of a difference was there? Stanton wondered.
‘There’s a place called The Sharrow at the centre of Port Lock. I’m told it’s still open, and little changed from when I was last here. Shall we meet there this evening?’
‘Yes, I’ll find it,’ said Pelter.
Stanton left it at that and looked with puzzlement at the guards at the gate. They all just stared at Pelter and made no move to block them or extract bribes. Each of them also had one of those strange scaled augs. Beyond the gate three AGCs of dubious safety were parked in a row. Three drivers came over to make their pitch. Two of the drivers were lucky. The third just went back to his vehicle and waited; there would soon be someone else. Ships were landing here and taking off with increasing regularity.
* * *
Mennecken, Corlackis, Dusache and Svent were not so similar in appearance as they were in inclination. The four of them liked danger, liked violence, and liked money. They were not at the metrotel where they had said they would be. Stanton was totally unsurprised to find them at the arena. As he came from the entrance tunnel between the tiered seating areas, he looked down into the ring and saw that a match was about to commence. A huge man with boosted musculature, twin augs linked by a sensory band across his eyes and a ceramal skull exposed above his ears was up against a smaller man wi
th bluish skin. The boosted man was armed with fist blades. The blue man had a long commando knife and a hook. They were circling, checking each other out. The four mercenaries were lounging in seats close to the ring itself—what were called the wet seats, for obvious reasons. Stanton made his way down to them.
‘Bit uneven,’ he said, sitting behind the four men. Casually, all four of them looked round at him. Mennecken and Corlackis were twins. Both of them looked neat in their businesswear suits, chrome augs and cropped black hair. The only distinguishing feature between them was that Mennecken was built like a weightlifter and Corlackis was slim. Neither of them was boosted. Boosting, they felt, led to overconfidence; it dulled their edge. Dusache had black curly hair, was boosted and tended to dress in leather and denim, but normally he went without an aug, though he had one now. Svent had a new aug too. The weaselly little killer liked every mechanical advantage he could get hold of and considered any kind of biological advantage a waste of time. He seemed small and weak, but Stanton knew this not to be the case. Svent had reinforced bones and cyber-motors at his joints. He was easily as capable of tearing your arm off as Dusache was, though he would be inclined to do it more slowly.
Dusache nodded to the opponents in the arena. ‘Blake there wanted to make himself some money. He’s made a mistake. The little guy is a Hooper from Spatterjay. Easy to underestimate,’ he said.
Stanton studied the little man more closely now. He saw that the blue coloration was due to thousands of blue ring-shaped scars all over his body. He returned his attention to the mercenaries and pointed to Dusache and Svent.
‘Those augs, what’s the story?’
The two men simultaneously reached up and touched the scaly organic augs nestling behind their ears. Stanton thought there was something creepy about this twinned response.
‘Good tech,’ said Svent. ‘You can access just about any server real fast, even get in a little on AI nets, damned near a gridlink, and these little dears ain’t far off AI themselves. About a hundred New Yen, plus fitting. Made by Dragoncorp.’
‘They look like biotech.’
‘Nah,’ said Svent. ‘You should know me better than that. I wouldn’t drop a Yen on that shit.’
‘Speaking of Yen,’ said Corlackis softly, and gazed at Stanton with tired patience. Stanton reached into his pocket and took out the sapphire. He tossed it to Corlackis. The mercenary’s hand snapped up cobra fast and caught the gem. He studied it for a moment, then dropped it in his top pocket.
‘Down payment,’ said Stanton.
‘Hey, I didn’t see that,’ said Dusache.
‘One hundred thousand New Carth,’ said Corlackis. ‘I will break it at the hotel bank and give you your share then.’
Dusache relaxed and turned his attention back to the fight. Together they all focused their attention on the opponents, for now came the sounds of metal on metal. The two fighters were in close, trying to smash through each other’s guards. Blake got through and drove his fist blade straight into the Hooper’s stomach. All over, thought Stanton, until the little man drove his hook through Blake’s shoulder, hooked it round his collarbone, drew in close and began pumping his blade in. Blake got another couple of hits in, but it was almost as if they were irrelevant to the Hooper. Stanton noted that the little man, though he had huge gashes open on his body, did not seem to be bleeding. Blake was bleeding plenty, and after a moment he started to scream thinly. He dropped to the ground and lay there making horrible gasping sounds. The Hooper detached his hook and walked away holding it up in the air. The cheering had an edge to it. Stanton watched a medbot zip in from the side and start driving blockers and tubes into Blake’s butchered flesh.
‘Big cell-welding job there,’ said Dusache. ‘Blake’s gonna be bankrupt.’
‘Now what that Hooper has,’ said Corlackis, glancing at Svent, ‘is a biological advantage worth considering.’
‘What is it?’ Stanton asked.
‘A fibroid parasite that binds their bodies up like nylon rope. He’s an old Hooper, about two centuries I would suggest. The parasite is, incredibly, a natural one. You see the marks on his skin? That is probably how he got it. He fell in the sea of his home planet and near got eaten alive by the leeches that live in it. I believe it all has something to do with the life-cycle there. Reusable food resources for the leeches, or some such.’
‘You call getting chewed on a biological advantage?’ Svent asked. ‘Stick to tech—you know where you are with tech. It’s not gonna mutate and eat your face off.’
All very interesting, thought Stanton as he looked at Svent. Why was it that he didn’t believe a word the little mercenary said? He stood and glanced to where the Hooper was leaving the arena, then he looked down at the four men.
‘I’ll be with Pelter this evening in The Sharrow. Be there,’ he said abruptly, and left the arena. The four watched him go, then turned their attention back to Blake as he was carried, shunted and tubed but still alive, from the bloody sand. When he was gone Corlackis turned his attention to Svent.
Svent appeared irritated. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Take it out of my cut . . . Shit, I’m gonna have words with Blake.’
9
Tenkian (Algin): Born 2151 on Mars during the Jovian Separatist crisis. Originally trained in the areas of metallurgy and the then quite young science of forcefield dynamics. At age nineteen, on his graduation from VIT (Viking Institute of Technology), he was recruited by the Jovian Separatists and soon moved to their weapons division. After four years, when the Separatists had resorted to terrorism, he became disillusioned with their methods and surrendered to Earth Security on Phobos. There he served two years of a ten-year sentence, and on his release joined ECS (under some duress, it is rumoured), where he worked for six years, and was there responsible for the development of the ionic-pulse handgun. Aged thirty-two he joined JMCC, where he had an integral role in the development of the electric shear. Five years after this he is recorded as leaving the JMCC complex. Three years later he turns up on Jocasta as a designer and crafter of esoteric individual weapons. He is accredited with the ‘Assassin Spider’, ‘Sneak Knife’ and chainglass, and also with being the first to install programmable microminds in hand weapons. Most of his weapons are now considered to be collectors’ pieces, and are infrequently used.
From The Weapons Directory
They trudged along, head down into a wind that blew ice crystals like steel pellets against them. It was not possible to hurry, much as they wanted to get back to the shuttle before the weather worsened. Mika slipped on the glassy ice and Thorn hauled her to her feet. As she made to move on, Thorn held onto her and inspected her coldsuit. A simple fall and one little tear could mean the loss of a limb or even death. Flesh froze quickly at these temperatures.
After that they regained the shuttle without further mishap. Jane headed for the cabin while the outer door closed on the rattle of ice crystals. AG engaged and then a thruster fired. A faint roaring penetrated the hull as the shuttle turned against the wind. Cormac wondered just how much of a hammering this place would give the equipment they had brought. Of course, he would have to ask.
It took ten minutes before the outer layers of their suits had been heated enough to be touched without the danger of coldburn. When they removed their masks their breath billowed in the frigid air. The heaters had not yet succeeded in raising the temperature above zero Celsius. Cormac inspected the chill lens of ceramal containing the fleck of material that was the submind, then slipped it in the pouch on his suit’s utility belt. He looked at Mika, who was frowning, probably at herself, and then he turned his attention to Gant and Thorn, who had now removed their gloves and were checking over their weapons.
‘Don’t be too ready to shoot,’ he told them.
‘We’re always ready to shoot, old chap, but never eager,’ drawled Thorn. Then he nodded to the holster on Cormac’s sleeve. ‘Nice little piece that. May I see it?’
Cormac looked at the holster for a
moment, then, coming to a decision, he unstrapped it and passed it across. Thorn touched a finger to the frigid control panel. There was a quiet snick and a small red light blinked on, then off. Thorn removed the five-point star of chrome steel and inspected it admiringly if somewhat gingerly.
‘Chainglass blades as well. This is a custom job. A Tenkian?’
He handed the weapon to Gant.
‘Yes, a Tenkian,’ said Cormac.
‘What’s the cut diameter with the auxiliary blades fully extended?’ asked Gant.
‘Twenty-five centimetres,’ Cormac told him.
‘Fuck! You ever used it at that?’
‘Once.’
‘Must have taken him apart.’
‘No, there’s never any need for full extension against a human opponent, it was against a Thrake.’ Cormac paused, groping for another conversational gambit. ‘Big bastard, looks like a woodlouse, but about the size of an elephant.’
Gant nodded and continued his inspection of the weapon.
‘Male bonding,’ said Chaline to Mika in a stage whisper, and shook her head. Mika lost her frown and smiled before starting some work on a notescreen. Gant took the holster from Thorn and put the shuriken away.
‘Not only a Tenkian, but one with a juiced-up processor as well,’ he said. He passed it back to Cormac. ‘A weapon like that is not cheap.’ He took out a cigarette and lit it.
Cormac strapped the holster back on his arm. He appreciated the irony of his situation. It was quite possible to talk to a person, without an AI in the background to give him information on that person. It was quite possible to learn a great deal about that person too, things that an AI might not be able to tell you. What had he learnt? He’d learnt that both these soldiers wore their personal guises over a harsh professionalism: Thorn with his phoney English accent borrowed from another age, Gant with his smoking and his gruff manner. Here, he realized, were two men who had been dehumanized, and were now reclaiming that humanity. Another of Blegg’s little touches. Cormac snorted to himself and thought about his last conversation with Angelina before he killed her. How had he managed to get so out of touch? In retrospect he realized he was lucky to be alive.