Salvation Lost

by Peter F. Hamilton

  An exhilarated Lars clamped his hands on Ollie’s shoulders. “What do you reckon? Are we out clear?”

  Ollie did his best not to flinch. “Yeah, we’re clear.”

  “Way to go, us!”

  They started dumping the kit they’d used on the raid. Ollie handed his fleshmask to Tronde, who dropped it and the others into a Clemson vat. A sickly yellow sludge of eight-letter DNA yeast oozed over the flaccid masks. It would take several days, but the yeast would break them down into fresh monomers that could be printed into something new. The facial patterns the police G8Turings had collected from the raid would be utterly useless.

  It killed him to do it, but Ollie stripped off his trousers and jacket. They went into a different Clemson vat, along with the boots. He kept the worker’s cap, though. That was hardly unique in London’s outlying boroughs.

  His trousers for the rest of the night were flared purple, with gold snakeskin boots. Jade Urchall arrived when he was threading his belt on, the one with the slim, dark-gloss dragon buckle. There was something about Jade that always disturbed him. The woman was probably mid-thirties, but Ollie could never tell if she’d had telomere treatments. She had badly styled sandy hair, a rounded jaw, and light brown eyes that always seemed slightly unfocused, as if she was coming down off a high. She wasn’t big, though certainly not petite, either; her clothes were always cheap prints from a fashion file that had missed a decade of upgrades. Everything about Jade made her utterly unremarkable—not what you’d expect from a member of a major crime family. Which was probably what disturbed him the most. When she was in the room, all he could think about was what kind of peripherals she had.

  Piotr gave her a guarded welcome.

  “Good job, boys,” she said and held up a small bag. The Southwark Legion grinned at the sight of it. When they ran a job for Jade, she always paid half in nark—and normally it was zero-nark, the strongest possible. Ordinary chem-extruders could never get the composition quite right; it took specialist equipment and a top-gun chemist. The effort was worth it, however. Zero-nark could be cut more than ninety percent, which made for a huge profit.

  Tronde claimed the bag with a victorious smile and took it over to his bench.

  “And the rest?” Piotr asked pleasantly.

  “Don’t you trust us?” Jade said, with a hint of a challenge.

  “Do you trust us?”

  She shook her head chidingly. “Boys, boys. Check your account, Piotr.”

  Piotr’s eyes closed for a long blink as he read the finance display splashing across his tarsus lenses. He smiled. “We got it.”

  Gareth high-fived Ollie, and the rest of them relaxed—properly now.

  Lars and Gareth wandered over to watch Tronde cutting the zero-nark. Adnan hadn’t stopped staring at Jade. “So when are we going to get it?”

  “Get what?”

  “Fuck’s sake! Come on. You’ve been prick-teasing us about the relay station for months.”

  If Jade was annoyed, it didn’t register on her bland face. “People have been watching your progress. Tonight was impressive, and that was noticed by the right people.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So you’ll hear from me when we need something…larger.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s—”

  Piotr’s hand closed on Adnan’s shoulder, squeezing. Not hard, but enough to warn him. Personally, Ollie would have been interested to see how Jade would react to an outright threat.

  “Some news on that soon,” Piotr said pointedly.

  “Damn right,” Jade replied.

  Ollie didn’t really believe her, but at least she hadn’t said no.

  * * *

  —

  Tronde had already started cutting the zero-nark when Jade moved over to his desk. She handed him a small packet containing a dozen plain white hemispherical pads, a centimeter across, fatter than the ones he was preparing.

  “For you,” she said.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, keeping an eye on the small stainless-steel mixing crucible, with its tiny robot arms blending the product to an even consistency.

  “Be careful with this stuff,” she told him. “Hifli doesn’t normally include benzo and a dopamine lifter as well. This is a dangerous formula.”

  Tronde shifted his glance to her as he put the hifli pads in his pocket. “I know, that’s the point. We need an unbreakable dependency.”

  “Oh, well…as long as you know what you’re doing.”

  Tronde scowled at the sarcasm in her voice and turned back to the sensitive mix in the crucible. It took another thirty minutes to complete and load the new substance into one-shot medic pads, by which time Jade had, thankfully, departed. Each of the Southwark Legion took their share of the pads. They were mostly going their separate ways tonight, thank crap. Lars, he knew, was going to the Danish Warehouse, where the unlicensed cage fights would carry on until dawn. He’d sell his pads to the other muscle-overloaded spectators, making decent money, but gamble it after on the fights, yelling praise and insults at his chosen contenders. His skin would be flushed demon-red, veins bulging obscenely, pupils tiny as the stupid prick pumped some of the pads for himself. If he got lucky—in his terms—he’d have a fight with some of the crowd.

  Piotr and Adnan were due at a student party over the river at Archway, where university freshers were busy celebrating their new freedoms away from home for the first time. Easy marks for pads, and lacking the courage to argue over price or about how low the cut was.

  Gareth was off to a different party, some secure crypt with his tech friends, where they’d cruise the lownet—a virtuality closed to the G8Turings where the darkheads ran their trades.

  Just as Tronde stood up, Lolo Maude arrived. Sie was Ollie’s friend, and in Tronde’s opinion serious bad news. Like every omnia, sie was tall, even taller than Lars—but unlike him, slim and elegant with it. Tronde always reckoned the Utopials were trying to modify themselves into elves, which was pretty dumb.

  Lolo embraced Ollie swiftly, kissed him, then looked nervously around the room, hir shoulders hunched almost fearfully. That Tronde could understand; if the kids outside didn’t know sie was with Ollie, sie would have been beaten up as soon as sie entered the district.

  Southwark was a strange place for a Utopial to wind up; it was even more obvious how exotic sie was in such a place. Lolo had come to Earth from Akitha on a student exchange program. And in that respect, sie was unremarkable. As with so many before hir, the temptations of a strange, decadent old world had proved too alluring. Sie was beautiful to look at—most of the Legion had noticed a strong resemblance to Sumiko. And with hir mysteriously sensual body, too much for Ollie to resist—not that he’d tried. Tronde was certain sie only chose Ollie for the zero-nark he could supply, because that was the kind of calculating whore sie was. For all hir manners and smarts, sie was brittle and needy, which was a dangerous combination. Tronde worried Ollie would say too much to hir when they were fucking—because sure as whale shit fell deep, sie wouldn’t keep hir mouth shut if the police ever questioned hir.

  “I’ve had a word with Ollie,” Piotr had said when Tronde mentioned his misgivings to him. Which ordinarily would have been enough, but in this case…

  “We’re out of here,” Ollie announced happily.

  “Where to?” Tronde asked, and there was just enough edge in his voice to make Ollie hesitate, his smile dimming a couple of watts.

  “Clubbing.”

  “I know a great place just off Regent Street,” Lolo said. “Diole.”

  Nyin, Tronde’s altme, immediately splashed details of the club across his tarsus lenses. It was the kind of place that boasted an A-list clientele, but in reality only had the youthful rich and wannabes.

  “Have fun, kids.” Piotr laughed.

  Tronde watched the two of them leave the ag
ing metal container, unable to help the scowl creasing his face.

  “He’ll be fine,” Adnan said.

  “I don’t give a shit about him, but it bothers me. It’s weird. I don’t trust it.”

  “Don’t fret,” Piotr said. “How long has Ollie ever held on to anyone?”

  Tronde didn’t bother answering. Piotr was right; Ollie was as pan as you could get, craving every experience possible, quickly and often. It meant he went through sex partners like he was upgrading corporate-issue software. None of them ever lasted more than a couple of weeks before he was back hunting fresh meat. It was the main reason Piotr had chosen Tronde out of all of them to take the lead on their most ambitious (and expensive) scam. It had to be played perfectly. Tronde prided himself that he got people: the way they behaved, the way they thought and reacted. Some had a menu of flaws that made them hugely complicated and unpredictable to the point of instability, while others with similar flaws were ridiculously simple. Claudette Beaumant for one.

  The others all wished Tronde good luck as they left, heading off to celebrate Saturday night the way it should be done: amid heat and hologram light and nark-tweaked senses. Tronde walked away from the old railway arches by himself, heading up Copeland Road to the junction with Rye Lane where the Connexion hub stood. Four minutes later, he was twelve hubs around the loop and in Richmond.

  Claudette Beaumant lived in one of the big houses halfway along Lichfield Road, its painted stone mullion windows almost obscured by the leafy horse chestnut trees bordering the clear central path, branches knotted together overhead to form a dark green living tunnel.

  Tronde sent his code to the lock pillar. Sensors scanned him, and the gate swung back. Claudette was waiting in the hall as the door opened, smiling in welcome. Forty-five years old (she claimed), with a face that’d been doused in way too many conflicting treatments during the last two decades in a frantic attempt to retain the fresh, beguiling features she’d possessed when she was twenty-two. As far as Tronde was concerned, she’d wasted a lot of money. Her skin looked like something that’d been sprayed over a plastic framework, then dusted in too much makeup.

  She didn’t even say anything, just kissed him, pressing up tight in anticipation of an eager physical response. Claudette had paid as much attention to her body as she had her looks. Gyms, personal trainers, anti-cellulites, Pilates, diet all combined to give her an athletic frame that really could have belonged to her twenty-something self. That and implants—expensive printed stem cells, not Kcells—which gave her a great pair of tits. Most of which were on show beneath a lustrous flapper dress with a short skirt. What straight male wouldn’t respond?

  “Where’ve you been?” she complained.

  “Busy with the lads. You know.”

  “No, I don’t. Come on. The table is booked for like ten minutes ago.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him back out of the front door and into the street. A Class One taxez trundled along the clear path and stopped outside the gate. It was a short ride to the restaurant, which she spent kissing him and fussing about his jacket. It was the one she’d bought for him last week, along with a silk shirt that was hand-tailored—and even Tronde had to admit it looked as good as it felt against his skin. The clothes weren’t cheap, but Claudette wanted to show him off to her friends. Her toyboy. Her hot bit of street rough. The savage she’d tamed, who gave her great sex all night long. Hell, you should see him with his clothes off. But hands off, bitches, he’s mine.

  As the luxury taxez started to slow, she flashed him an anxious glance. “Did you bring it?”

  “Sure,” he replied reassuringly and patted his jacket pocket.

  “Good. We’ll leave early. I want you.”

  “You want me because I’m a bad boy. Everybody knows that.”

  “Yes.” A flicker of greed unsettled her cherry-red glossed lips, then she was herself again. The bright, dazzling gal about town, the Richmond superstar, the friend you always had a great time with.

  And there they were, all those equally glitzy friends, waiting for her when the taxez pulled up outside the restaurant.

  We could have walked, Tronde thought. It wouldn’t have taken much longer, and it was warm enough. But no, Claudette didn’t walk like some common person; a Class One taxez was her minimal requirement when she was out to meet people—and always the right people. That was one of the many things he hated about her, the way everything she wanted was affordable. She never asked or thought about what anything cost.

  Her friends swooped in with shrill greetings that set his teeth on edge, tossing admiring—and calculating—looks his way. False jollity—so very glad to finally meet you. Air kisses. How he despised those. Big hair like works of art. Short, low-cut dresses, plenty of thigh and cleavage exhibited—almost as prominent as the glittering bling draped around necks and weighing down fingers. No cheap printed repo here; these women wore jewelry crafted by London’s exclusive artisans.

  Their men were indifferent to him. Husbands, partners, even a couple of lads who’d lucked out: male candy with game-star looks and toned muscle, enjoying the pampered ride. Whores. No doubt they thought the same of him.

  The group had a big table in the center of the restaurant. Their voices were loud all night. Names were gossiped: celebs he’d never heard of and couldn’t be arsed to check with Nyin. Holidays bragged about. It was nonstop. They didn’t just talk; sentences were shrieked out with vocal chords turned up to eleven. A penetrating sonic barrage that threatened a headache.

  Claudette’s hand kept sneaking under the table, playing with his crotch, trying to tweak a reaction from him. He kept his expression deadpan, talking banalities to the woman on his other side. Her leg was pressed up against his, too, rubbing gently. He kept his cool about that and the thousand other small verbal abuses he was subjected to, proving to himself that out of all the Southwark Legion crew, he really was the right one for this.

  Copious wine was poured from 250-wattdollar bottles into large cut crystal glasses and drunk without any appreciation. Tronde ordered a beer to start with, then kept to sparkling water. The food was delicious, he admitted, artistically presented and cooked to perfection. In his head he was calculating the cost; this one meal was more than the price the Southwark Legion had paid the matcher for Claudette’s name. And that had taken plenty of hard graft to pull so much cash together.

  Finally, it was time to go. Claudette, who was now giggly-drunk on a heady combination of white wine, lust, and egotism, swayed against him as she urged him toward the door, their arms entwined. Spirited innuendos sliced through the air behind them like claws grasping for fleeing prey.

  Claudette managed to keep her persona intact until they got back to the house. Then the cracks began to show.

  “You have got it, haven’t you?” she asked urgently.

  Tronde hardened his voice, becoming stern—the way that enlivened her. “I told you I have it.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  Tronde realized she wasn’t as drunk as she’d made out at the restaurant. Her eyes flicked about, as if expecting someone else to be in the house—someone who mattered. The police (to catch them and incarcerate them). A journalist (exposing her crimes). Because now she was about to do Bad Things. Excitement and anticipation made her breathless. She kissed him again, desperate to pull him into the intrigue, because this was a stairway down to the thrilling underworld where upper-middle-class women like her never went.

  “It’s not cheap,” he said smoothly. “This stuff is so rare my usual bloke didn’t have any left. I had to go to someone new, which is risky. This dealer, he’s got connections that go right to the top.”

  “Oh, god, you were careful, weren’t you? I don’t want you hurt.”

  He grinned. “I’m a bad boy. He knows that. We respect each other.”

  Her gaze was worshipful.

  “The mon
ey,” he prompted.

  “Yes, yes. How much?”

  Nyin sent her altme a finance transfer package for three thousand wattdollars. The tiniest hesitation crinkled the eyeliner around her eyes.

  “I want this again,” he said. “I want us together when we use.”

  “Right. Absolutely.”

  Claudette’s money swirled down a digital sink into the lownet, vanishing.

  “Good girl. Now what have you got for me?”

  “The best,” she promised. She took his hand and pulled him directly up the stairs.

  Her bedroom was hideous: pink and purple and black, frilly cushions everywhere. Large, salacious charcoal drawings hung on the walls.

  “I’ll get ready for you,” she said as she hurried into her en suite bathroom. “Don’t go away.” A flash of concern, insecurities showing.

  He laughed, casual and arrogant. “I’m not going anywhere. You know how hot your body is. I’ve been getting hard for days thinking what I’m going to do to you tonight.” He gave the decorous art porn a meaningful glance.

  Claudette simpered, claiming the role of the boudoir seductress in her lair: feminine wiles irresistible to the unsophisticated boy from the wrong side of the metroloop.

  The smile fell from Tronde’s lips as soon as she shut the door. He had to concede the matcher was worth the money. Outwardly, Claudette was poised and knowing, her social status making her invulnerable. She had breeding—both parents’ families did, stretching back generations. With it came the sure knowledge she was where she deserved to be in the world.