'A man like what?'
'Oh come — ' She stopped herself and gave me a small smile. 'Sorry, I keep forgetting.'
'Forgetting what?'
Another pause, but this time Kristin Ortega seemed to be off balance for the hrst time in our brief acquaintance. There was hesitancy blurring her tone when she spoke again. 'You're not from here.'
'So?'
'So anyone from here would know what kind of man Laurens Bancroft is. That's all.'
Fascinated at why someone would lie so ineptly to a total stranger, I tried to put her back at her ease. 'A rich man,' I hazarded. 'A powerful man.'
She smiled thinly. 'You'll see. Now do you want this lift or not?'
The letter in my pocket said a chauffeur would be outside the terminal to pick me up. Bancroft had made no mention of the police. I shrugged.
'I've never turned down a free ride yet.'
'Good. Then shall we go?'
They flanked me to the door and stepped out ahead like bodyguards, heads tilted back and lensed eyes scanning. Ortega and I stepped through the gap together and the warmth of the sunlight hit me in the face. I screwed up my new eyes against the glare and made out angular buildings behind real wire fences on the other side of a badly-kept landing lot. Sterile, and off-white, quite possibly original pre-millennial structures. Between the oddly monochrome walls, I could see sections of a grey iron bridge that came vaulting in to land somewhere hidden from view. A similarly drab collection of sky and ground cruisers sat about in not particularly neat lines. The wind gusted abruptly and I caught the faint odour of some flowering weed growing along the cracks in the landing lot. In the distance was the familiar hum of traffic, but everything else felt like a period drama set piece.
' . . . and I tell you there is only one judge! Do not believe the men of science when they tell you . . . '
The squawk of the poorly operated ampbox hit us as we went down the steps from the exit. I glanced across the landing area and saw a crowd assembled around a black-clad man on a packing crate. Holographic placards wove erratically in the air above the heads of the listeners. NO TO RESOLUTION 653!! ONLY GOD CAN RESURRECT!! D.H.F. = D.E.A.T.H. Cheers drowned out the speaker.
'What's this?'
'Catholics,' said Ortega, lip curling. 'Old-time religious sect.'
'Yeah? Never heard of them.'
'No. You wouldn't have. They don't believe you can digitise a human being without losing the soul.'
'Not a widespread faith then.'
'Just on Earth,' she said sourly. 'I think the Vatican -that's their central church — financed a couple of cryoships to Starfall and Latimer — '
'I've been to Latimer, I never ran into anything like this.'
'The ships only left at the turn of the century, Kovacs. They won't get there for a couple more decades yet.'
We skirted the gathering, and a young woman with her hair pulled severely back thrust a leaflet at me. The gesture was so abrupt that it tripped my sleeve's unsettled reflexes and I made a blocking motion before I got it under control. Hard-eyed, the woman stood with the leaflet out and I took it with a placating smile.
'They have no right,' the woman said.
'Oh, I agree . . . '
'Only the Lord our God can save your soul.'
'I — ' But by this time Kristin Ortega was steering me firmly away, one hand on my arm, in a manner that suggested a lot of practice. I shook her off politely but equally firmly.
'Are we in some kind of hurry?'
'I think we both have better things to do, yes,' she said, tight lipped, looking back to where her colleagues were engaged in fending off leaflets of their own.
'I might have wanted to talk to her."
'Yeah? Looked to me like you wanted to throat-chop her.'
'That's just the sleeve. I think it had some neurachem conditioning way back when, and she tripped it. You know, most people lie down for a few hours after downloading. I'm a little on edge.'
I stared at the leaflet in my hands. CAN A MACHINE SAVE YOUR SOUL? it demanded of me rhetorically. The word 'machine' had been printed in script designed to resemble an archaic computer display. 'Soul' was in flowing stereographic letters that danced all over the page. I turned over for the answer.
NO!!!!!
'So cryogenic suspension is okay, but digitised human freight isn't. Interesting.' I looked back at the glowing placards, musing. 'What's Resolution 653?'
'It's a test case going through the UN Court,' said Ortega shortly. 'Bay City public prosecutor's office want to subpoena a Catholic who's in storage. Pivotal witness. The Vatican say she's already dead and in the hands of God. They're calling it blasphemy.'
'I see. So your loyalties are pretty undivided here.'
She stopped and turned to face me.
'Kovacs, I hate these goddamn freaks. They've been grinding us down for the best part of two and a half thousand years. They've been responsible for more misery than any other organisation in history. You know they won't even let their adherents practise birth control, for Christ's sake, and they've stood against every significant medical advance of the last five centuries. Practically the only thing you can say in their favour is that this d.h.f. thing has stopped them from spreading with the rest of humanity.'
My lift turned out to be a battered but undeniably rakish-looking Lockheed-Mitoma transport decked out in what were presumably police colours. I'd flown Lock-Mits on Sharya, but they'd been a dull radar-reflective black all over. The red and white stripes on this one looked garish by comparison. A pilot in sunglasses to match the rest of Ortega's little gang sat motionless in the cockpit. The hatch into the belly of the cruiser was already hinged up. Ortega banged on the hatch coaming as we climbed aboard and the turbines awoke with a whispery sound.
I helped one of the mohicans manhandle the hatch down, steadied myself against the lift of the cruiser and found my way to a window seat. As we spiralled up, I craned my neck to keep the crowd below in sight. The transport straightened out about a hundred metres up and dropped its nose slightly. I sank back into the arms of the automould and found Ortega watching me.
'Still curious huh?' she said.
'I feel like a tourist. Answer me a question?'
'If I can.'
'Well, if these guys don't practise birth control, there's got to be an awful lot of them, right. And Earth isn't exactly a hive of activity these days, so . . . Why aren't they running things?'
Ortega and her men swapped a set of unpleasant smiles. 'Storage,' said the mohican on my left.
I slapped myself on the back of the neck, and then wondered if the gesture was in use here. It's the standard site for a cortical stack, after all, but then cultural quirks don't always work like that.
'Storage. Of course.' I looked around at their faces. 'There's no special exemption for them?'
'Nope.' For some reason, this little exchange seemed to have made us all buddies. They were relaxing. The same mohican went on to elaborate. 'Ten years or three months, it's all the same to them. A death sentence every time. They never come off stack. It's cute, huh?'
I nodded. 'Very tidy. What happens to the bodies?'
The man opposite me made a throwaway gesture. 'Sold off, broken down for transplants. Depends on the family.'
I turned away and stared out of the window.
'Something the matter, Kovacs?'
I faced Ortega with a fresh smile gripping my face. It felt as if I was getting quite good at them.
'No, no. I was just thinking. It's like a different planet.'
That cracked them up.
Suntoucb House
October 2nd
Takeshi-san,
When you receive this letter, you will doubtless be somewhat disoriented. I offer my sincere apologies for this, but I have been assured that the training you underwent with the Envoy Corps should enable you to deal with the situation. Similarly, I assure you that I would not have subjected you to any of this had my own situa
tion not been desperate.
My name is Laurens Bancroft. Coming as you do from the colonies, this may not mean anything to you. Suffice it to say that I am a rich and powerful man here on Earth, and have made many enemies as a result. Six weeks ago I was murdered, an act which the police, for reasons of their own, have chosen to regard as suicide. Since the murderers ultimately failed I can only assume that they will try again and, in view of the police attitude, they may well succeed.
Clearly you will wonder what all this has to do with you and why you have been dragged a hundred and eighty-six light years out of storage to deal -with such a local matter. I have been advised by my lawyers to retain a private investigator, but owing to my prominence in the global community, I am unable to trust anyone I could engage locally. I was given your name by Reileen Kawahara, for whom I understand you did some work on New Beijing eight years ago. The Envoy Corps were able to locate you in Kanagawa within two days of my requesting your whereabouts, though in view of your discharge and subsequent activities they were unable to offer any kind of operational guarantees or pledges. It is my understanding that you are your own man.
The terms under which you have been released are as follows: You are contracted to -work for me for a period of six weeks with an option for me to renew at the end of that time should further work be necessary. During this time I shall be responsible for all reasonable expenses incurred by your investigation. In addition, I shall cover the cost of sleeve rental for this period. In the event that you conclude the investigation successfully, the remainder of your storage sentence at Kanagawa — one hundred and seventeen years and four months — will be annulled and you will be refreighted to Harlan 's World for immediate release in a sleeve of your own choosing. Alternatively, I undertake to pay off the balance of the mortgage on your current sleeve here on Earth and you may become a naturalised UN citizen. In either case the sum of one hundred thousand UN dollars, or equivalent, will be credited to you.
I believe these terms to be generous but I should add that I am not a man to be trifled with. In the event that your investigation fails and I am killed, or that you attempt to in any way escape or evade the terms of your contract, the sleeve lease will be terminated immediately arid you -will be re, turned to storage to complete your sentence here on Earth. Any further legal penalties that you incur may be added to that sentence. Should you choose not to accept my contract from, the outset, you will also be returned to storage immediately, though I cannot undertake to refreight you to Marian's World in this case.
I am hopeful that you will see this arrangement as an opportunity, and agree to work for me. In anticipation of this, I am sending a driver to collect you from the storage facility. His name is Curtis and he is one of my most trusted employees. He will be waiting for you in the release hall.
I look forward to meeting you at Suntouch House.
Yours sincerely,
LaurensJ. Bancroft.
CHAPTER THREE
Suntouch House was aptly named. From Bay City we flew south down the coast for about half an hour before the change in engine pitch warned me that we were approaching our destination. By that time the light through the right side windows was turning warm gold with the sun's decline towards the sea. I peered out as we started to descend and saw how the waves below were molten copper and the air above pure amber. It was like landing in a jar of honey.
The transport sideslipped and banked, giving me a view of the Bancroft estate. It edged in from the sea in neatly manicured tones of green and gravel around a sprawling tile-roofed mansion big enough to house a small army. The walls were white, the roofing coral and the army, if it existed, was out of sight. Any security systems Bancroft had installed were very low-key. As we came lower I made out the discreet haze of a power fence along one border of the grounds. Barely enough to distort the view from the house. Nice.
Less than a dozen metres up over one of the immaculate lawns the pilot kicked in the landing brake with what seemed like unnecessary violence. The transport shuddered from end to end and we came down hard amidst flying clods of turf.
I shot Ortega a reproachful look which she ignored. She threw open the hatch and climbed out. After a moment I joined her on the damaged lawn. Prodding at the torn grass with the toe of one shoe, I shouted over the sound of the turbines. 'What was that all about? You guys pissed off with Bancroft just because he doesn't buy his own suicide?'
'No.' Ortega surveyed the house in front of us as if she was thinking of moving in. 'No, that's not why we're pissed off with Mr Bancroft.'
'Care to tell me why?'
'You're the detective.'
A young woman appeared from the side of the house, tennis racket in hand, and came across the lawn towards us. When she was about twenty metres away, she stopped, tucked the racket under her arm and cupped her hands to her mouth.
'Are you Kovacs?'
She was beautiful in a sun, sea and sand sort of way and the sports shorts and leotard she was wearing displayed the fact to maximal effect. Golden hair brushed her shoulders as she moved and the shout gave away a glimpse of milk white teeth. She wore sweat bands at forehead and wrists and from the dew on her brow they were not for show. There was finely toned muscle in her legs and a substantial bicep stood out when she lifted her arms. Exuberant breasts strained the fabric of the leotard. I wondered if the body was hers.
'Yes,' I called back. 'Takeshi Kovacs. I was discharged this afternoon.'
'You were supposed to be met at the storage facility.' It was like an accusation. I spread my hands.
'Well. I was.'
'Not by the police.' She stalked forward, eyes mostly on Ortega. 'You. I know you.'
'Lieutenant Ortega,' said Ortega, as if she was at a garden party. 'Bay City, Organic Damage Division.'
'Yes. I remember now.' The tone was distinctly hostile. 'I assume it was you who arranged for our chauffeur to be pulled over on some trumped-up emissions charge.'
'No, that would be Traffic Control, ma'am,' said the detective politely. 'I have no jurisdiction in that division.'
The woman in front of us sneered.
'Oh, I'm sure you haven't, lieutenant. And I'm sure none of your friends work there either.' The voice turned patronising. 'We'll have him released before the sun goes down, you know.'
I glanced sideways to see Ortega's reaction, but there was none. The hawk profile remained impassive. Most of me was preoccupied with the other woman's sneer. It was an ugly expression, and one that belonged on an altogether older face.
Back up by the house there were two large men with automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. They had been standing under the eaves watching since we arrived, but now they ambled out of the shade and began to make their way in our direction. From the slight widening of the young woman's eyes I guessed that she had summoned them on an internal mike. Slick. On Harlan's World people are still a bit averse to sticking racks of hardware into themselves, but it looked as if Earth was going to be a different proposition.
'You are not welcome here, lieutenant,' said the young woman in a freezing voice.
'Just leaving, ma'am,' said Ortega heavily. She clapped me unexpectedly on the shoulder and headed back to the transport at an easy pace. Halfway there she suddenly stopped and turned back.
'Here, Kovacs. Almost forgot. You'll need these.'
She dug in her breast pocket and tossed me a small packet. I caught it reflexively and looked down. Cigarettes.
'Be seeing you.'
She swung herself aboard the transport and slammed the hatch. Through the glass I saw her looking at me. The transport lifted on full repulse, pulverising the ground beneath and ripping a furrow across the lawn as it swung west towards the ocean. We watched it out of sight.
'Charming,' said the woman beside me, largely to herself.
'Mrs Bancroft?'
She swung around. From the look on her face, I wasn't much more welcome here than Ortega had been. She had seen the lieute
nant's gesture of camaraderie and her lips twitched with disapproval.
'My husband sent a car for you, Mr Kovacs. Why didn't you wait for it?'
I took out Bancroft's letter. 'It says here the car would be waiting for me. It wasn't.'
She tried to take the letter from me and I lifted it out of her reach. She stood facing me, flushed, breasts rising and falling distractingly. When they stick a body in the tank, it goes on producing hormones pretty much the way it would if you were asleep. I became abruptly aware that I was swinging a hard-on like a filled fire hose.
'You should have waited.'
Harlan's World, I remembered from somewhere, has gravity at about o.8g. I suddenly felt unreasonably heavy again. I pushed out a compressed breath.
'Mrs Bancroft, if I'd waited, I'd still be there now. Can we go inside?'
Her eyes widened a little, and I suddenly saw in them how old she really was. Then she lowered her gaze and summoned composure. When she spoke again, her voice had softened.
'I'm sorry, Mr Kovacs. I've forgotten my manners. The police, as you see, have not been sympathetic. It's been very upsetting, and we all still feel a little on edge. If you can imagine — '
'There's no need to explain.'
'But I am very sorry. I'm not usually like this. None of us are.' She gestured around as if to say that the two armed guards behind her would ordinarily have been bearing garlands of flowers. 'Please accept my apologies.'
'Of course.'
'My husband's waiting for you in the seaward lounge. I'll take you to him immediately.'
The inside of the house was light and airy. A maid met us at the veranda door and took Mrs Bancroft's tennis racket for her without a word. We went down a marbled hallway hung with art that, to my untutored eye, looked old. Sketches of Gagarin and Armstrong, Empathist renderings of Konrad Harlan and Angin Chandra. At the end of this gallery, set on a plinth, was something like a narrow tree made out of crumbling red stone. I paused in front of it and Mrs Bancroft had to backtrack from the left turn she was making.
Altered Carbon Page 3