Altered Carbon

Altered Carbon Page 20

by Richard Morgan

  'One question,' I managed, between breathing. 'Who's the kid? The one Mrs Bancroft crucified.'

  Prescott flicked me an impatient glance.

  'Big secret, huh?'

  'No, Mr Kovacs, it is not a secret, large or otherwise. I merely think you might do better occupying your mind with other matters than the Bancrofts' house guests. If you must know, the other player was Marco Kawahara.'

  'Was it, indeed.' Accidentally, I'd slipped into Phiri's speech patterns. Chalk up a double strike for personality. 'So that's where I've seen his face before. Takes after his mother, doesn't he?'

  'I really wouldn't know,' said Prescott dismissively. 'I have never met Ms Kawahara.'

  'Lucky you.'

  Bancroft was waiting for us in an exotic conservatory pinned to the seaward wing of the house. The glass walls were a riot of alien colours and forms, among which I picked out a young mirrorwood tree and numerous stands of martyrweed. Bancroft was standing next to one of the latter, spraying it carefully with a white metallic dust. I don't know much about martyrweed beyond its obvious uses as a security device, so I had no idea what the powder was.

  Bancroft turned as we came in. 'Please keep your voices reasonably low.' His own voice was curiously flat in the sound absorbent environment. 'Martyrweed is highly sensi­tive at this stage of development. Mr Kovacs, I assume you are familiar with it.'

  'Yeah.' I glanced at the vaguely hand-shaped cups of the leaves, with the central crimson stains that had given the plant its name. 'You sure these are mature?'

  'Fully. On Adoracion, you'll have seen them larger, but I had Nakamura tailor these for indoor use. This is as secure as a Nilvibe cabin and,' he gestured to a trio of steel frame chairs beside the martyrweed, 'a great deal more comfort­able.'

  'You wanted to see me,' I said impatiently. 'What about?'

  For just a moment that black iron stare bent on me with the full force of Bancroft's three and a half centuries, and it was like locking gazes with a demon. For that second, the Meth soul was looking out and I saw reflected in those eyes all the myriad ordinary single lives that they had watched die, like the pale flickerings of moths at a flame. It was an experience I'd only had once before, and that was when I'd taken issue with Reileen Kawahara. I could feel the heat on my wings.

  Then it was gone, and there was only Bancroft, moving to seat himself and setting the powder spray aside on an adjacent table. He looked up and waited to see if I would sit down as well. When I did not, he steepled his fingers and frowned. Oumou Prescott hovered between us.

  'Mr Kovacs, I am aware that by the terms of our contract I agreed to meet all reasonable expenses in this investi­gation, but when I said that, I did not expect to be paying for a trail of wilful organic damage from one side of Bay City to another. I have spent most of this morning buying off both the West Coast triads and the Bay City police, neither of whom were very well disposed towards me even before you started this carnage. I wonder if you realise how much it is costing me just to keep you alive and out of storage.'

  I looked around at the conservatory and shrugged.

  'I imagine you can afford it.'

  Prescott flinched. Bancroft allowed himself the splinter of a smile.

  'Perhaps, Mr Kovacs, I no longer wish to afford it.'

  'Then pull the fucking plug.' The martyrweed trembled visibly at the sudden change in tone. I didn't care. Abruptly, I was no longer in the mood for playing the Bancrofts' elegant games. I was tired. Discounting the brief period of unconsciousness at the clinic, I had been awake for over thirty hours and my nerves were raw from the continual use of the neurachem system. I had been in a firefight. I had escaped from a moving aircar. I had been subjected to interrogation routines that would have traumatised most human beings for a lifetime. I had com­mitted multiple combat murders. And I had been in the act of crawling into bed when the Hendrix let Bancroft's curt summons through the call block I'd requested, quote, 'in the interests of maintaining good client relations and so assuring continued guest status'. Someday, someone was going to have to overhaul the hotel's antique service industry idiolect; I had weighed the idea of doing it myself with the Nemex when I got off the phone, but my irritation at the hotel's enslaved responses to guest-holding was overridden by the anger I felt towards Bancroft himself. It was that anger that had stopped me ignoring the call and going to bed anyway, and propelled me out to Suntouch House dressed in the same rumpled clothes I had been wearing since the previous day.

  'I beg your pardon, Mr Kovacs?' Oumou Prescott was staring at me. 'Are you suggesting — '

  'No, I'm not, Prescott. I'm threatening.' I switched my gaze back to Bancroft. 'I didn't ask to join this fucking No dance. You dragged me here, Bancroft. You pulled me out of the store on Marian's World and you jacked me into Elias Ryker's sleeve just to piss Ortega off. You sent me out there with a few vague hints and watched me stumble around in the dark, cracking my shins on your past misdemeanours. Well, if you don't want to play any more, now the current's running a little hard, that's fine with me. I'm through risking my stack for a piece of shit like you. You can just put me back in the box, and I'll take my chances a hundred and seventeen years from now. Maybe I'll get lucky, and whoever wants you toasted will have wiped you off the face of the planet by then.'

  I'd had to check my weapons at the main gate, but I could feel the dangerous looseness of the Envoy combat mode stealing over me as I spoke. If the Meth demon came back and got out of hand, I was going to choke the life out of Bancroft there and then just for the satisfaction.

  Curiously, what I said only seemed to make him thoughtful. He heard me out, inclined his head as if in agreement, then turned to Prescott.

  'Ou, can you drop out for a while. There are some things that Mr Kovacs and I need to discuss in private.'

  Prescott looked dubious. 'Shall I post someone outside?' she queried, with a hard glance at me. Bancroft shook his head.

  'I'm sure that won't be necessary.'

  Prescott left, looking dubious, while I struggled not to admire Bancroft's cool. He'd just heard me say I was happy to go back into storage, he'd been reading my body count all morning, and still he thought he had my specs down tight enough to know whether I was dangerous or not.

  I took a seat. Maybe he was right.

  'You've got some explaining to do,' I said evenly. 'You can start with Ryker's sleeve, and go on from there. Why'd you do it, and why conceal it from me?'

  'Conceal it?' Bancroft's brows arched. 'We barely discussed it.'

  'You told me you'd left the sleeve selection to your lawyers. You were at pains to stress that. But Prescott in­sists you made the selection yourself. You should have briefed her a bit better on the lies you were going to tell.'

  'Well.' Bancroft made a gesture of acceptance. 'A reflexive caution, then. One tells the truth to so few people in the end, it becomes a habit. But I had no idea it would matter to you so much. After your career in the Corps, and your time in storage, I mean. Do you usually exhibit this much interest in the past history of the sleeves you wear?'

  'No, I don't. But ever since I arrived, Ortega's been all over me like anticontaminant plastic. I thought it was because she had something to hide. Turns out, she's just trying to protect her boyfriend's sleeve while he's in the store. Incidentally, did you bother to find out why Ryker was on stack?'

  This time Bancroft's open-handed motion was dismis­sive. 'A corruption charge. Unjustified organic damage, and attempted falsification of personality detail. I under­stand it wasn't his first offence.'

  'Yeah, that's right. In fact he was well known for it. Well known and very unpopular, especially around places like Licktown, which is where I've been the last couple of days, following the trail of your dripping dick. But we'll come back to that. I want to know why you did it. Why am I wearing Ryker's sleeve?'

  Bancroft's eyes flared momentarily at the insult, but he really was too good a player to rise to it. Instead, he shot his right cuff in a displac
ement gesture I recognised from Diplomatic Basic, and smiled faintly.

  'Really, I had no idea it would prove inconvenient. I was looking to provide you with suitable armour, and the sleeve carries — '

  'Why Ryker?'

  There was a beat of silence. Meths were not people you interrupted lightly, and Bancroft was having a hard time dealing with the lack of respect. I thought about the tree beyond the tennis courts. No doubt Ortega, had she been there, would have cheered.

  'A move, Mr Kovacs. Merely a move.'

  'A move? Against Ortega?'

  'Just so.' Bancroft settled back into his seat. 'Lieutenant Ortega made her prejudices quite clear the moment she stepped into this house. She was unhelpful in the extreme. She lacked respect. It was something that I remembered, an account to be adjusted. When the shortlist Oumou pro­vided me with included Elias Ryker's sleeve, and listed Ortega as paying the tank mortgage, I saw the move as almost karmic. It dictated itself.'

  'A little childish for someone your age, don't you think?'

  Bancroft inclined his head. 'Perhaps. But then, do you recall a General Maclntyre of Envoy Command, resident of Harlan's World, who was found gutted and decapitated in his private jet a year after the Innenin massacre?'

  'Vaguely.' I sat, cold, remembering. But if Bancroft could play the control game, so could I.

  'Vaguely?' Bancroft raised an eyebrow. 'I'd have thought a veteran of Innenin could scarcely fail to recall the death of the commander who presided over the whole debacle, the man many claim was actually guilty by negli­gence of all those Real Deaths.'

  'Maclntyre was exonerated of all blame by the Protecto­rate Court of Inquiry,' I said quietly. 'Do you have a point to make?'

  Bancroft shrugged. 'Only that it seems his death was a re­venge killing, despite the verdict handed down by the court, a pointless act, in fact, since it could not bring back those who died. Childishness is a common enough sin amongst humans. Perhaps we should not be so quick to judge.'

  'Perhaps not.' I stood up and went to stand at the door of the conservatory, looking out. 'Well, then don't feel that I'm sitting in judgement, but why exactly didn't you tell me you spent so much time in whorehouses?'

  'Ah, the Elliott girl. Yes, Oumou has told me about this. Do you seriously think her father had something to do with my death?'

  I turned back. 'Not now, no. I seriously believe he had nothing to do with your death, in fact. But I've wasted a lot of time finding that out.'

  Bancroft met my eye calmly. 'I'm sorry if my briefing was inadequate, Mr Kovacs. It is true, I spend some of my leisure time in purchased sexual release, both real and virtual. Or, as you so elegantly put it, whorehouses. I'd not considered it especially important. Equally, I spend part of my time in small-scale gambling. And occasionally null-gravity knife fighting. All of these things could make me enemies, as indeed could most of my business interests. I didn't feel that your first day in a new sleeve on a new world was the time for a line-by-line explanation of my life. Where would I expect to begin? Instead, I told you the background of the crime and suggested that you talk to Oumou. I didn't expect you to take off after the first clue like a heatseeker. Nor did I expect you to lay waste every­thing that got in your way. I was told the Envoy Corps had a reputation for subtlety.'

  Put like that, he had a point. Virginia Vidaura would have been furious, she probably would have been right behind Bancroft, waiting to deck me for gross lack of fin­esse. But then, neither she nor Bancroft had been looking into Victor Elliott's face the night he told me about his family. I swallowed a sharp retort and marshalled what I knew, trying to decide how much to let go of.

  'Laurens?'

  Miriam Bancroft was standing just outside the conser­vatory, a towel draped around her neck and her racket under one arm.

  'Miriam.' There was a genuine deference in Bancroft's tone, but little else that I could determine.

  'I'm taking Nalan and Joseph out to Hudson's Raft for a scuba lunch. Joseph's never done it before, and we've talked him into it.' She glanced from Bancroft to myself and back. 'Will you be coming with us?'

  'Maybe later,' said Bancroft. 'Where will you be?'

  Miriam shrugged. 'I hadn't really thought about it. Somewhere on the starboard decks. Benton's, maybe?'

  'Fine. I'll catch you up. Spear me a kingfish if you see one.'

  'Aye aye.' She touched the blade of one hand to the side of her head in a ludicrous salute that made both of us smile unexpectedly. Miriam's gaze quivered and settled on me. 'Do you like seafood, Mr Kovacs?'

  'Probably. I've had very little time to exercise my tastes on Earth, Mrs Bancroft. So far I've only eaten what my hotel has to offer.'

  'Well. Once you've developed a taste for it,' she said significantly, 'maybe we'll see you as well?'

  'Thank you, but I doubt it.'

  'Well,' she repeated brightly. 'Try not to be too much longer, Laurens. I'll need some help keeping Marco off Nalan's back. He's fuming, by the way.'

  Bancroft grunted. 'The way he played today, I'm not surprised. I thought for a while he was doing it deliber­ately.'

  'Not the last game,' I said, to no one in particular.

  The Bancrofts focused on me, he unreadably, she with her head tipped to one side and a sudden wide smile that made her look unexpectedly child-like. For a moment I met her gaze, and one hand rose to touch her hair with what seemed like fractional uncertainty.

  'Curtis will be bringing the limousine round,' she said. 'I'll have to go. It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr Kovacs.'

  We both watched her stride away across the lawn, her tennis skirt tilting back and forth. Even allowing for Ban­croft's apparent indifference to his wife as a sexual being, Miriam's wordplay was steering fractionally too close to the wind for my liking. I had to plug the silence with some­thing.

  'Tell me something, Bancroft,' I said with my eyes still on the receding figure. 'No disrespect intended, but why does someone who's married to her, who's chosen to stay married, spend his time in quote purchased sexual release?'

  I turned casually back and found him watching me without expression. He said nothing for several seconds, and when he spoke his voice was carefully bland.

  'Have you ever come in a woman's face, Kovacs?'

  Culture shock is something they teach you to lock down very early on in the Corps, but just occasionally a blast gets through the armour and the reality around you feels like a jigsaw that won't quite fit together. I barely chopped off my stare before it got started. This man, older than the entire human history of my planet, was asking me this question. It was as if he'd asked me had I ever played with water pistols.

  'Uh. Yes. It, uh, it happens if — '

  'A woman you paid?'

  'Well, sometimes. Not especially. I — ' I remembered his wife's abandoned laughter as I exploded into and around her mouth, come trickling down over her knuckles like foam from a popped champagne bottle. 'I don't really re­member. It's not a special fetish of mine, and —

  'Nor of mine,' snapped the man in front of me, with rather too much emphasis. 'I choose it merely as an example. There are things, desires, in all of us that are better suppressed. Or at least, that cannot be expressed in a civilised context.'

  'I'd hardly counterpose civilisation with spilling semen.'

  'You come from another place,' said Bancroft broodingly. 'A brash, young colonial culture. You can have no concept of how the centuries of tradition have moulded us here on earth. The young of spirit, the adventurous, all left on the ships in droves. They were encouraged to leave. Those who stayed were the stolid, the obedient, the limited. I watched it happen, and at the time I was glad, because it made carving out an empire so much easier. Now, I wonder if it was worth the price we paid. Culture fell in on itself, grappled after norms to live by, settled for the old and familiar. Rigid morality, rigid law. The UN declarations fossilised into global conform­ity, there was a — ' he gestured ' — a sort of supracultural straitjacket, and wi
th an inherent fear of what might be borne from the colonies, the Protectorate arose while the ships were still in flight. When the first of them made planetfall, their stored peoples woke into a prepared tyranny.'

  'You talk as if you stood outside it. With this much vision, you still can't fight your way free?'

  Bancroft smiled thinly. 'Culture is like a smog. To live within it, you must breathe some of it in and, inevitably, be contaminated. And in any case, what does free mean in this context? Free to spill semen on my wife's face and breasts? Free to have her masturbate in front of me, to share the use of her flesh with other men and women. Two hundred and fifty years is a long time, Mr Kovacs, time enough for a very long list of dirty, degrading fantasies to infest the mind and titillate the hormones of each fresh sleeve you wear. While all the time your finer feelings grow purer and more rarified. Do you have any concept of what happens to emotional bonds over such a period?'

  I opened my mouth, but he held up his hand for silence and I let him have it. It's not every day you get to hear the outpourings of a centuries-old soul and Bancroft was in full flow.

  'No,' he answered his own question. 'How could you? Just as your culture is too shallow to appreciate what it is to live on Earth, your life experience cannot possibly encom­pass what it is to love the same person for two hundred and fifty years. In the end, if you endure, if you beat the traps of boredom and complacency, in the end what you are left with is not love. It is almost veneration. How then to match that respect, that veneration with the sordid desires of whatever flesh you are wearing at the time? I tell you, you cannot.'

  'So instead you vent yourself on prostitutes?'

  The thin smile returned. 'I am not proud of myself, Mr Kovacs. But you do not live this long without accepting yourself in every facet, however distasteful. The women are there. They satisfy a market need, and are recom­pensed accordingly. And in this way I purge myself.'

  'Does your wife know this?'

  'Of course. And has done for a very considerable time. Oumou informs me that you are already aware of the facts regarding Leila Begin. Miriam has calmed down a lot since then. I'm sure she has adventures of her own.'

 

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