Altered Carbon

Altered Carbon Page 34

by Richard Morgan

  I grimaced. Compared to Kawahara, Death was a three-bout pushover.

  I stopped at the prow and picked a point on the horizon to watch until Ortega made up her mind.

  Suppose you know someone, a long time ago. You share things, drink deeply of each other. Then you drift apart, life takes you in different directions, the bonds are not strong enough. Or maybe you get torn apart by external circumstance. Years later, you meet that person again, in the same sleeve, and you go through it all over again. What's the attraction? Is this the same person? They probably have the same name, the same approximate physical appearance, but does that make them the same? And if not, does that make the things that have changed unimportant or peripheral? People change, but how much? As a child I'd believed there was an essential person, a sort of core personality around which the surface factors could evolve and change without damaging the integrity of who you were. Later, I started to see that this was an error of perception caused by the metaphors we were used to framing ourselves in. What we thought of as personality was no more than the passing shape of one of the waves in front of me. Or, slowing it down to more human speed, the shape of a sand dune. Form in response to stimulus. Wind, gravity, upbringing. Gene blueprinting. All subject to erosion and change. The only way to beat that was to go on stack forever.

  Just as a primitive sextant functions on the illusion that the sun and stars rotate around the planet -we are standing on, our senses give us the illusion of stability in the universe, and we accept it, because without that acceptance, nothing can be done.

  Virginia Vidaura, pacing the seminar room, lost in lecture mode.

  But the fact that a sextant will let you navigate accurately across an ocean does not mean that the sun and stars do rotate around us. For all that we have done, as a civilisation, as indi­viduals, the universe is not stable, and nor is any single thing within it. Stars consume themselves, the universe itself rushes apart, and we ourselves are composed of matter in constant flux. Colonies of cells in temporary alliance, replicating and decaying and housed within, an incandescent cloud of electrical impulse and precariously stacked carbon code memory. This is reality, this is self knowledge, and the perception of it will, of course, make you dizzy. Some of you have served in Vacuum Command, and -will no doubt think that out there you have confronted existence vertigo.

  A thin smile.

  I promise you that the Zen moments you may have enjoyed in hard space are not much more than the beginning of what you must learn here. All and anything you achieve as Envoys must be based on the understanding that there is nothing but flux. Anything you wish to even perceive as an Envoy, let alone create or achieve, must be carved out of that flux.

  I wish you all luck.

  If you couldn't even meet the same person twice in one lifetime, in one sleeve, what did that say about all the families and friends waiting in Download Central for someone they once knew to peer out through the eyes of a stranger. How could that even be close to the same person?

  And where did that leave a woman consumed with passion for a stranger wearing a body she once loved. Was that closer, or further away?

  Where, for that matter, did it leave the stranger who responded?

  I heard her coming along the rail towards me. She stopped a couple of paces away and cleared her throat quietly. I quelled a smile, and turned round.

  'I didn't tell you how Ryker came to have all this, did I?'

  'It didn't seem the time to ask.'

  'No.' A grin that faded as if swept away by the breeze. 'He stole it. A few years back, while he was still working Sleeve Theft. Belonged to some big-time clone marketeer from Sydney. Ryker caught the case because this guy was moving broken-down merchandise through the West Coast clinics. He got co-opted into a local taskforce and they tried to take the guy down at his marina. Big firefight, lots of dead people.'

  'And lots of spoils.'

  She nodded. 'They do things differently down there. Most of the police work gets picked up by private con­tractors. The local government handle it by tying payment to the assets of the criminals you bring down.'

  'Interesting incentive,' I said reflectively. 'Ought to make for a lot of rich people getting busted.'

  'Yeah, they say it works that way. The yacht was Ryker's piece. He did a lot of the groundwork on the case, and he was wounded in the firefight.' Her voice was curiously undefensive as she related these details, and for once I felt that Ryker was a long way away. 'That's where he got the scar under the eye, that stuff on his arm. Cable gun.'

  'Nasty.' Despite myself, I felt a slight twinge in the scarred arm. I'd been up against cable fire before, and not enjoyed the encounter very much.

  'Right. Most people reckoned Ryker earned every rivet of this boat. The point is, policy here in Bay City is that officers may not keep gifts, bonuses or anything else awarded for line-of-duty actions.'

  'I can see the rationale for that.'

  'Yeah, so can I. But Ryker couldn't. He paid some cut-rate Dipper to lose the ship's records and reregister her through discreet holding. Claimed he needed a safe house, if he ever had to stash someone.'

  I grinned a little. 'Thin. But I like his style. Would that be the same Dipper who ratted him out in Seattle?'

  'Good memory you've got. Yeah, the very same. Nacho the Needle. Bautista tells a well-balanced story, doesn't he?'

  'Saw that too, huh?'

  'Yeah. Ordinarily, I'd have ripped Bautista's fucking head off for that paternal uncle shit. Like I need emotional sheltering, he's been through two fucking divorces and he's not even forty yet.' She stared reflectively out to sea. 'I haven't had the time to confront him yet. Too busy being fucked off with you. Look, Kovacs, reason I'm telling you all this is, Ryker stole the boat, he broke West Coast law. I knew.'

  'And you didn't do anything,' I guessed.

  'Nothing.' She looked at her hands, palms upturned. 'Oh, shit, Kovacs, who are we kidding? I'm no angel myself. I kicked the shit out of Kadmin in police custody. You saw me. I should have busted you for that fight outside Jerry's and I let you walk.'

  'You were too tired for the paperwork, as I recall.'

  'Yeah, I remember.' She grimaced, then turned to look me in the eyes, searching Ryker's face for a sign that she could trust me. 'You say you're going to break the law, but no one gets hurt. That's right?'

  'No one who matters,' I corrected gently.

  She nodded slowly to herself, like someone weighing up a convincing argument that may just change their mind for good.

  'So what do you need?'

  I levered myself off the rail. 'A list of whorehouses in the Bay City area, to start with. Places that run virtual stuff. After that, we'd better get back to town. I don't want to call Kawahara from out here.'

  She blinked. 'Virtual whorehouses?'

  'Yeah. And the mixed ones as well. In fact, make it every place on the West Coast that runs virtual porn. The lower grade the better. I'm going to sell Bancroft a package so filthy he won't want to look at it close enough to check for cracks. So bad he won't even want to think about it.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Ortega's list was over two thousand names long, each annotated with a brief surveillance report and any Organic-Damage convictions tied to the operators or clientele. In hardcopy format it ran to about two hundred concertina'd sheets, which started to unravel like a long paper scarf as soon as I got past page one. I tried to scan the list in the cab back to Bay City, but gave up when it threatened to overwhelm us both on the back seat. I wasn't in the mood anyway. Most of me wished I was still bedded down in the stern cabin of Ryker's yacht, isolated from the rest of humanity and its problems by hundreds of kilometres of trackless blue.

  Back at the Watchtower suite, I put Ortega in the kitchen while I called Kawahara at the number Trepp had given me. It was Trepp that came on screen first, features smeared with sleep. I wondered if she'd been up all night trying to track me.

  'Morning.' She yawned and presumably
checked an internal timechip. 'Afternoon, I mean. Where've you been?'

  'Out and about.'

  Trepp rubbed inelegantly at one eye and yawned again. 'Suit yourself. Just making conversation. How's your head?'

  'Better, thanks. I want to talk to Kawahara.'

  'Sure.' She reached towards the screen. 'Talk to you later.'

  The screen dropped into neutral, an unwinding tricoloured helix accompanied by sickly sweet string arrangements. I gritted my teeth.

  'Takeshi-san.' As always, Kawahara started in Japanese, as if it established some kind of common ground with me. 'This is unlooked-for so early. Do you have good news for me?'

  I stayed doggedly in Amanglic. 'Is this a secure line?'

  'As close as such a thing can be said to exist, yes.'

  'I have a shopping list.'

  'Go ahead.'

  'To begin with, I need access to a military virus. Rawling 4851 for preference, or one of the Condomar variants.'

  Kawahara's intelligent features hardened abruptly. 'The Innenin virus?'

  'Yeah. It's over a century out of date now, shouldn't be too hard to get hold of. Then I need — '

  'Kovacs, I think you'd better explain what you're planning.'

  I raised an eyebrow. 'I understood this was my play, and you didn't want to be involved.'

  'If I secure you a copy of the Rawling virus, I'd say I'm already involved.' Kawahara offered me a measured smile. 'Now what are you planning to do with it?'

  'Bancroft killed himself, that's the result you want, right?'

  A slow nod.

  'Then there has to be a reason,' I said, warming to the deceit structure I'd come up with, despite myself. I was doing what they'd trained me to do, and it felt good. 'Bancroft has remote storage, it doesn't make sense that he'd light himself up unless he had a very specific reason. A reason unrelated to the actual act of suicide. A reason like self preservation.'

  Kawahara's eyes narrowed. 'Go on.'

  'Bancroft uses whorehouses on a regular basis, real and virtual. He told me that himself a couple of days ago. And he's not too particular about the quality of establishment he uses either. Now, let's assume that there's an accident in one of these virtuals while he's getting his itch scratched. Accidental bleedover from some grimed-up old programs that no one's bothered to even open for a few decades. Go to a low enough grade of house, there's no telling what might be lying around.'

  'The Rawling virus.' Kawahara exhaled as if she had been holding her breath in anticipation.

  'Rawling variant 4851 takes about a hundred minutes to go fully active, by which time it's too late to do anything.' I forced images of Jimmy de Soto from my mind. 'The target's contaminated beyond redemption. Suppose Ban­croft finds this out through some kind of systems warning. He must be wired internally for that kind of thing. He suddenly discovers the stack he's wearing and the brain it's wired to is burnt. That's not a disaster, if you've got clone backup and remote storage, but — '

  'Transmission.' Kawahara's face lit up as she got it.

  'Right. He'd have to do something to stop the virus being 'cast to the remote with the rest of his personality. With the next needlecast coming up that night, maybe in a few minutes' time, there was only one way to ensure the remote stack didn't get contaminated.'

  I mimed a pistol at my head.

  'Ingenious.'

  'That's why he made the call, the timecheck. He couldn't trust his own internal chip, the virus might already have scrambled it.'

  Solemnly, Kawahara lifted her hands into view and ap­plauded. When she had finished, she clasped her hands together and looked at me over them.

  'Very impressive. I will obtain the Rawling virus im­mediately. Have you selected a suitable virtual house for it to be downloaded into?'

  'Not yet. The virus isn't the only thing I need. I want you to arrange the parole and re-sleeving of Irene Elliott, currently held at Bay City Central on conviction of Dipping. I also want you to look into the possibility of acquiring her original sleeve back from its purchasers. Some corporate deal, there'll be records.'

  'You're going to use this Elliott to download Rawling?'

  'The evidence is she's good.'

  'The evidence is she got caught,' observed Kawahara tartly. 'I've got plenty of people can do this for you. Top line intrusion specialists. You don't need — '

  'Kawahara.' I kept my temper with an effort, but heard some of it in the tightness in my voice. 'This is my gig, remember. I don't want your people climbing all over it. If you unstack Elliott, she'll be loyal. Get her her own body back and she'll be ours for life. That's the way I want to do it, so that's the way it's going down.'

  I waited. Kawahara stayed expressionless for a moment, then bestowed on me another carefully calibrated smile.

  'Very well. We will do it your way. I'm sure you're aware of the risks you are taking, and what will happen if you fail. I shall contact you at the Hendrix later today.'

  'What's the word on Kadmin?'

  'Of Kadmin, there is no word.' Kawahara smiled once more, and the connection broke.

  I sat staring at the standby screen for a moment, re­viewing the scam as I'd laid it out. I had the uneasy feeling that I'd been telling the truth in the midst of all the deceit. Or, more, that my carefully spun lies were treading in the tracks of the truth, following the same path. A good lie should shadow the truth closely enough to draw substance from it, but this was something else, something altogether more unnerving. I felt like a hunter who has tracked a swamp panther a little too close for comfort, and expects at any moment to see it rear up out of the swamp in all its fanged and tendril-maned horror. The truth was here, somewhere.

  It was a hard feeling to shake.

  I got up and went into the kitchen, where Ortega was foraging through the almost empty fridge unit. Light: from within cast her features in a way I hadn't seen before and below one raised arm her right breast filled the slack of her T-shirt like fruit, like water. The desire to touch her was an itching in my hands.

  She glanced up. 'Don't you cook?'

  'Hotel does it all for you. Comes up in the hatch. What do you want?'

  'I want to cook something.' She gave up looking through the fridge and closed the door of the unit. 'Get what you wanted?'

  'Think so. Give the hotel a list of ingredients. There are pans and things in that rack down there, I think. Anything else you need, ask the hotel. I'm going to go through the list. Oh, and Kristin.'

  She looked round from the rack I'd indicated.

  'Miller's head isn't in here. I put it next door.'

  Her mouth tightened a little. 'I know where you put Miller's head,' she said. 'I wasn't looking for it.'

  A couple of minutes later, seated on the window shelf with the hardcopy unfolding away to the floor, I heard the low tones of Ortega conversing with the Hendrix. There was some banging about, more muted conversation, and then the sound of oil frying gently. I fought off the urge for a cigarette and bent my head to the hardcopy.

  I was looking for something that I'd seen every day of my young life in Newpest; the places I'd spent my teenage years, the narrow accessways of tiny properties sporting cheap holos that promised things like Better than the Real Thing, Wide Range of Scenarios and Dreams Come True. It didn't take much to set up a virtual brothel. You just needed frontage and space for the client coffins stacked upright. The software varied in price, depending on how-elaborate and original it was, but the machines to run it could usually be bought out of military surplus at base­ment rates.

  If Bancroft could spend time and money in Jerry's biocabins, he'd be at home in one of these.

  I was two thirds of my way through the list, more and more of my attention sifting away to the aromas issuing from the kitchen, when my eyes fell on a familiar entry and I grew abruptly still.

  I saw a woman with long, straight black hair and crimson lips

  I heard Trepp's voice

  . . . head in the clouds. I want to be
there before midnight.

  And the bar-coded chauffeur

  No problem. Coastal's running light tonight.

  And the crimson-lipped woman

  Head in the clouds. This is what it's like. Maybe you can't afford to come up here.

  A choir in climax

  from the Houses, from the Houses, from the Houses . . .

  And the businesslike printout in my hands

  Head in the Clouds: accredited West Coast House, real and virtual product, mobile aerial site outside coastal limit. . .

  I scanned through the notes, head ringing as if it were crystal that had been delicately struck with a hammer.

  Navigational beams and beaconing system locked to Bay City and Seattle. Discreet membership coding. Routine searches, NR. No convictions. Operated under licence from Third Eye Holdings Inc.

  I sat still, thinking.

  There were pieces missing. It was like the mirror, wedged into place on jagged edges, enough to hold an image, but not the whole. I was peering hard at the irregular limits of what I had, trying to see round the edges, to get the backdrop. Trepp had been taking me to see Ray — Reileen — at Head in the Clouds. Not Europe, Europe was a blind, the sombre weight of the basilica designed to numb me to what should have been obvious. If Kawahara was involved in this thing, she wouldn't be overseeing it from half a globe away. Kawahara was on Head in the Clouds, and . . .

  And what?

  Envoy intuition was a form of subliminal recognition, an enhanced awareness of pattern that the real world too often abraded with its demand for detailed focus. Given enough traces of continuity, you could make a leap that enabled you to see the whole as a kind of premonition of real knowledge. Working from that model, you could fill in the bits later. But there was a certain minimum you needed to get airborne. Like old-style linear prop aircraft, you needed a run up, and I didn't have it. I could feel myself bumping along the ground, clawing at the air and falling back. Not enough.

 

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